The Little Parachute

by J. Robert Janes

  Hiding behind the bathtub had been easy—the soldiers had searched, had pulled out all of the towels. Bars of soap had been thrown aside. Soap, can you believe it? he asked himself, and tucking a cinnamon-scented bar into each pocket, prepared to leave. But why had he chosen the cinnamon kind? he wondered. ‘It’s exotic,’ he softly said. ‘It smells nice, and Angélique would have talked about it for years after it had all been used up.’

  The Germans were downstairs, most of them. They thought he had run outside and now they searched the surrounding woods and the marshes next to the river, now they used the dogs, the three of them that were left.

  When he hurried along the corridor, he heard urgent voices behind a closed door but had no time to listen. Soon he had found the servants’ staircase, soon he had made it to the ground floor again but now the sound of harsh voices broke over him.

  Darting into a room, he eased the door shut and tried to calm himself, but it was the strangest of rooms. Long spears were crossed over big shields made of lion and tiger skin and these were mounted on the walls between the heads of their victims and those, too, of the gazelle and antelope. There were zebra skins on the floor and on the armchairs too, and the curved tusks of an elephant made an arch over an ebony and glass-windowed cabinet in which there were guns, and in the drawers below, bullets for them. Those of the elephant gun were very heavy, those for the gazelle much lighter.

  Four double-barrelled shotguns stood side by side. Gingerly he took one of them down and, after some fiddling, broke it open.

  The number 12 cartridge fitted the chambers snugly. ‘I will load this one,’ he said, ‘but first I must find out how the safety works. I can’t have it on when I have to pull the triggers.’

  Photographs showed the former owner of the château as a young man on safari. He stood with an arm draped over the shoulders of his gun bearer. In another photo, his wife lifted the head of a tiger she had just killed. With the elephant, they watched as the blacks butchered it and cut out the heart.

  In a desk drawer there was a Mauser pistol in a worn leather holster and when Martin took it out, he didn’t pull the trigger but whispered, ‘I have everything I need. Now I, too, can go on safari.’

  Bagatelle Château wasn’t just teaming with armed SS, a crisis was in progress, but when the doors to the winter salon were closed, the sound of that was muffled.

  ‘Well, what is it, Sous-préfet?’ demanded Kraus.

  Irritable, a danger at any time and with his left ear swathed in bandages, the Sturmbannführer was scowling. ‘I have two messages for you from the Kommandantur,’ said Allard, deferentially mopping the all but bald crown of his massive head with a handkerchief. ‘Every Tuesday morning the colonel and I have a briefing and, as I was coming this way, Frau Hössler asked if I would deliver them.’

  ‘Oh and did she now?’ seethed Kraus as he looked him over. The widely set, large and dark brown eyes were far too wary—had he known there hadn’t been a parachutist? Had he? wondered Kraus. ‘Messages?’ he asked, reaching for a cigarette.

  The Gestapo Munk was with him. Both were sitting by a fire that had been allowed to go out. ‘Yes, Sturmbannführer.’

  A half-empty bottle of the colonel’s Calvados and two glasses were to hand. The cigarette was lighted. ‘Then come … come closer and let us hear what you have to say for yourself. We have been interrogating the terrorist Châlus and the Bellecour woman for hours, and apologize for our state of untidiness. Such things are never easy. You’ll have heard, no doubt, of our little successes.’

  The rampages, the murders.

  Blood, and what could only be excrement, were spattered on the sleeves and collar of Kraus’s brown shirt and open tunic. The black tie was missing. There was blood, too, on the Gestapo Munk.

  Allard found the telex and extended it only to hear Kraus saying, ‘Read it aloud and clearly. Please don’t falter like a schoolboy—you did go to school with Ledieu, didn’t you?’

  Ah merde, what was this?

  The nostrils of the sous-préfet’s big, flat nose pinched as he drew in the breath of the condemned. The bayonet scar that ran from beneath the lower lip to the line of his jaw tightened.

  As calmly as he could, Allard ignored the question and read the telex. Kraus smiled at the news it brought of Dirksen. ‘That reading was very good, Sous-préfet, but had you practised, I wonder?’

  The Gestapo Munk let his gaunt-eyed gaze sift over him, causing Allard to shudder.

  ‘Well?’ shot Kraus. ‘As a police administrator, did you or did you not read it earlier?’

  ‘I read it, yes.’

  Had a little of that patriotic defiance not left him? wondered Kraus. ‘Usually such things are placed in sealed envelopes but when I spoke to Frau Hössler but a few moments ago by telephone, she made no mention of this not having been done.’

  Had he really talked to the woman? ‘She was understandably very tired, Sturmbannführer. Indeed, I gather she hadn’t left her post all night.’

  How cautious of him. ‘And she gave you, a Frenchman, confidential messages for me in unsealed envelopes?’

  ‘Only one of them wasn’t sealed. We were in a hurry. The failure to seal it was entirely my fault.’

  Yet the envelope had vanished. ‘Ach, it’s noble of you to take the blame so readily, Sous-préfet. Yes, that’s good of you, but do you know what the terrorist Angélique Bellecour said of you?’

  Cher Jésus, forgive that poor woman. Trapped, Allard stood in uncertainty, trying desperately to retain a modicum of composure. ‘No, Sturmbannführer, I don’t.’

  ‘Châlus had words to say about your mayor. Abbeville holds a terrorist organization right in our midst. You and Father Nicolas and Ledieu have been close friends for a very long time, have you not?’

  Châlus might or might not have said a thing, the same for Angélique Bellecour. ‘Sturmbannführer, there were two messages for you. Both are very urgent. Time is …’

  ‘ANSWER ME!’

  The Gestapo Munk got up and reached for his gloves. There were two armed SS standing sentry just inside the doors to the salon. Escape was impossible. ‘Very well, then, yes, we were schoolboys together. We were in the Great War also, Sturmbannführer, in the same unit from the start and until wounded.’

  ‘And Ledieu is a terrorist—we have absolute proof of this.’

  Did they only know that much and nothing more? demanded Allard of himself but said of Honoré, ‘This I can’t believe, Sturmbannführer. Too much is at stake—his town, his family, his grandchildren …’

  Kraus snapped his fingers. The Gestapo Munk took a step closer and then another and another. ‘The second message,’ demanded Munk, and the two of them watched as Allard fumbled for the thing and finally managed to drag it from a pocket.

  ‘Sealed,’ said Munk, raking him with a scathing look and, turning to hand it to Kraus, swung back suddenly with a fist.

  Allard felt blood bursting from his broken lips. Clutching his stinging mouth and jaw, he swallowed hard and tearfully blurted, ‘Sacré nom de nom, what was that for?’

  ‘YOU’RE ALL TERRORISTS!’ shrieked Kraus. ‘You have the affront to come here to me, to demand answers? Then I will give them to you! The boy has escaped but will soon be apprehended and punished. The colonel is under house arrest. The terrorists Châlus and Bellecour are …’

  Munk must have signalled that such irrationality of news-giving deserved caution, for Kraus shut up and tore the envelope open to silently read the note from Marie-Hélène de Fleury.

  I am waiting for you in a ruined hut on the slopes of the Monts de Caubert not far from the anti-aircraft batteries. There is a path from the Calvary to the viewpoint and then it is but a short climb to the hut. Come alone. Please don’t break my cover. I have the names of all of them but must leave for Paris before it is too late.

  The peacocks cried, the g
eese honked. Seen through the fog, the dogs strained at their leads and in one curving sweep, the line of armed SS fanned out as it turned from the marshes towards the wooded slopes.

  Ledieu gripped himself by the chin in thought. Should he leave while he could; should he stay? He was up the slope some distance—there was a good vantage point here. Théodore had not yet left the château. Had there been trouble?

  There must have been, he said and, wetting his lips, touched them in thought. Was it all over? he asked and hated to think it, but one had to, and when Théodore came down the steps, he could barely see him but knew for certain two armed SS followed him.

  The line of soldiers had all but crossed the lawns and were about to enter the formal gardens where statues stood grey in the grey of the fog. ‘I must,’ he said.

  Théodore paused beside his little car to throw his friend a last look but the distance, it was too great. Perhaps he said, Run, Honoré. Forgive me for failing you. Perhaps he simply said, Retreat. Try to warn the others, but we’re both realists, eh?

  The two with the machine pistols also got into the car. One sat in the front passenger seat; the other directly behind Théodore.

  They drove away. The line … the dogs had now reached the woods. Seldom calling to each other, the Boches advanced up the slope and soon were lost from sight.

  Again Ledieu wet his lips in uncertainty. Leaning back against an oak, he said, ‘Nicolas, are you there?’

  And when he lay on the ground face down so as to silence the shot if possible, he said, ‘Forgive me but I have no other choice if I am to protect them,’ and put the muzzle of the revolver into his mouth.

  Doumier. Remember Henri-Paul. Keep him always in your thoughts.

  The SS-Unterscharführer, a young man of twenty perhaps, crumpled into a fist the rain-soaked card that had been tied to one of the bouquets of drenched red chrysanthemums.

  Allard glanced doubtfully up at the heavily timbered cross with its crucified Christ. He had to give Joseph Marchand and Jean-Pierre all the time he could. They would have kept a lookout. They’d have seen them arrive.

  The Calvary on the Monts de Caubert was not frequented much these days, not since the Defeat, and idly he wondered who had made the effort to leave these tributes.

  Prodded, he gave the two SS a curt nod, then said, ‘The hut is this way. Please follow me.’ He had no other choice. Kraus had not yet had him arrested but had been suspicious and hadn’t cared about the de Fleury woman’s cover.

  Following him, the SS stayed close but all too soon the path dipped below the edge of the escarpment and narrowed as it passed among the trees and underbrush. Angular blocks of mossy limestone caused it to narrow further, to be constricted so that one burst from the Schmeisser would hit all three. Why hadn’t Joseph fired that thing? Why hadn’t he?

  Ah merde, one of the armed SS had vanished. Silently Allard cursed them. The other one, a stern-faced Stabsschar­führer who had been awarded the Infanterie-Sturmabzeichen for hand-to-hand combat no doubt, and the silver Verwundeten-­Abzeichen for wounds incurred in the same, nodded for him to continue. ‘We will take no chances,’ he grunted.

  Was it to end this way? wondered Allard but thought that yes, it might be more suitable. Perhaps Joseph and Jean-Pierre had left while they could, fading away into the woods but first killing the infiltrator.

  In his heart of hearts he knew there was no hope for himself and he wondered then if he could at least deal with the Stabsscharführer before that one killed him.

  Things outside the ruined hut were too quiet. Always in the past she had heard one or the other of them when they had come to check on her but they hadn’t come in quite a while.

  Cautiously Marie-Hélène brought her knees up to her chin and braced her back and bound hands against the wall behind her. Constantly she searched out the gaps in the door and walls—even in the roof—for some sign of what was happening.

  Perhaps five more minutes passed, perhaps a little more. Then she heard a furtive step. A hand, an arm crept across the splintered door to ease it open slowly.

  Another step was taken but these were not the steps of the one who was opening the door.

  Tears filled her eyes and, terrified, she tried to stop them because they blurred her vision.

  The one called Jean-Pierre ducked silently into the hut to reach for the shears and to flatten his back against that wall. Now he, too, waited. His hand was raised. The shears were gripped. There was a wariness and fear in his dark brown eyes she did not like.

  He was young. Even younger than herself.

  The door was eased open further by the toe of a well-greased jackboot that glistened with accumulated beads of water. The grey-green trousers were heavy, the leg strong, the Schmeisser gripped at the ready by thick-fingered hands.

  She waited. The one with the shears waited. The armed SS saw her quite clearly—she was certain of this and violently shook her head to warn him, only to have him misunderstand.

  He thought she meant she was alone. He went away. She tried to cry out to him and fought to clear the tears, but it was no use.

  Satisfied that they were alone, if only for a moment, the one called Jean-Pierre lowered the shears and threw a last glance at the doorway. Then he stepped over to her but did not smile or try to fool around—things were far too desperate.

  He crouched. He tried to get her to unlock her chin from her knees. He wanted to get at her chest.

  ‘I can’t stab you in the neck,’ he managed. ‘Please be reasonable.’

  She refused. She balled herself up more tightly. Plucking at her shoulders, he began to pull her away from the wall but she pushed her back and hands against it more firmly.

  ‘Putain!’ he hissed and began to hack off her hair.

  She ducked away. He grabbed a handful of hair. The shears tore at the roots. He was pulling, had caught a determined breath. She must kick him now—NOW! she cried out inwardly and pushed herself at him—kicked out hard, saw a startled look come into his eyes, saw blood rush from his gaping mouth and, as she toppled over onto her side, saw the armed SS release Jean-Pierre’s throat and let the head fall back.

  Butcher to him, the rawboned, blond, grey-eyed Unterscharführer wiped the blade of the knife on Jean-Pierre’s shirt, then cut her ankles and wrists free.

  He put a finger to his lips and cut the gag that had silenced her.

  Cramped, Marie-Hélène tried to ease her wrists and move her fingers and toes.

  He had no more time for her and, putting the knife away, swung the Schmeisser back into hand.

  Shakily she teased the shears from Jean-Pierre’s fingers and stood up. Kraus hadn’t come. Kraus had sent this one and others to bring her in.

  The Unterscharführer ducked out of the hut. One moment he was there before her, the next he was gone.

  Now, again, she waited and strained to listen, only to realize she was breathing very rapidly.

  Catching a breath, she tried to calm her racing pulse. Kraus wanted her on his terms, not hers and then … what, then? Up against the whitewashed execution post to guarantee her silence, was that what he’d do?

  Or would he have her all to himself?

  A burst from a Schmeisser came to her. It was short and sharp and she had the thought that it couldn’t have been the foreman of the brewery who had fired it but one of the others.

  Another burst came from off to her right. It was longer, harder, and yes, it had a reckless finality to it.

  The smell of cordite was caught in her nostrils. Fog from the valley was seeping up the slope as it lifted and she felt the mizzle breaking against her cheeks and hands.

  Stumbling, she went down hard among the mossy, angular talus. The shears shot from her hand. Crying out inwardly, she frantically strained to reach them, pulled herself forward and dug her right arm much deeper among the rocks.

>   At last she had them and had hooked her thumb and forefinger securely through the grips.

  Some of her hair still clung to one of the blades. If only she could slip away unseen. If only she could meet Kraus on her own terms.

  When she found the Unterscharführer, he was slumped against a ledge and his eyes were filled with disbelief. His stomach was a mass of blood and as he gripped it, he looked up at her in question and tried to speak but couldn’t.

  His Schmeisser had been taken.

  Twice more she heard the sound of one of those things, sharp and hard and echoing through the fog.

  Only then was there silence again and this lasted for far too long. Trembling—not knowing what to do—Marie-Hélène began to pick her way back to the hut and when she saw the Stabsscharführer grinning up at her, she fought for words and finally managed, ‘Is it true? Am I safe at last? Those bastards were going to kill me.’

  ‘They’ll kill no more,’ he said and, gathering the Schmeissers­ by their shoulder straps, told her they should leave while they could.

  She picked her way down to him.

  ‘A moment, please,’ she said. ‘Excuse me, but it’s necessary.’

  Again he grinned. He watched as she hiked her skirt and squatted to urinate and only then did he turn his back on her.

  She leapt. She drove the shears deeply into the side of his neck. Startled—crying out in pain and rage—he grabbed his neck and fought for the shears.

  Together, she clinging to him and fighting to use them, they rolled down over the rocks. Repeatedly she drove the shears into his neck and as blood spurted from his jugular, she sank the blades deeply into him and held on fiercely. Felt him jerk in spasm after spasm until at last his body was still.

  Blood covered her hands and arms. Her shirt-blouse was soaked, her skirt too. ‘Salaud!’ she swore and spat as she tried to wipe her mouth on a corner of his shirt. ‘Did you need to bleed so much?’

  Exhausted, she remained straddling him, her head bowed not in defeat but in despair, for what was she to do? Others might come running at any moment. Others …