The events which transpired during the ensuing weeks at first confounded my still-naive nature. On the very night after my first encounter with the French girl, I recited her words by rote in the presence of my master, experiencing a great discomfort as I did so, for her unabashed truths raised the issue of my own lineage. Yet Himmel only blinked his single eye as he listened, then smiled and waved me on to my other tasks. I found myself wondering if my own character might ever be so resolute as his, that my utter rejection by such an angelic creature would also result in no more than a bemused expression.
On the next day, the Colonel snapped a sealed envelope into my hand. Apparently, it contained a missive prepared by him in private, which was very curious, as Himmel had come to rely on my honed typing skills, and only in very rare occurrences of highly secret communications did he resort to hunting and pecking of his own volition. The envelope was addressed to the resident Gestapo commander in Avignon, and my orders were to make delivery and await a reply in kind.
So, once again I saddled my horse, whom I had renamed Blitzkrieg, in keeping with my obsequious habits of attempting to demonstrate my martial enthusiasm. I assumed correctly that the Gestapo officer would be occupying the desk of Avignon’s former chief of police, and indeed found him residing in the station house astride the main thoroughfare. I remained at attention in the office of this middle-aged, bespectacled Berlin bureaucrat, while he studied the Colonel’s message. He thought for a moment, jotted no more than a numeral on the original page, resealed it and handed it back to me. It was a crisp and sunny day, and during my ride back to the estate I was sorely tempted to hold the envelope up to the glaring light. Yet I feared being spotted en route by some member of the Commando, and declined to tempt a breach of Himmel’s trust. He received the return message and perused it with no more than an additional smile.
On the next day, the Colonel bade me gather a straw basket, a bottle of French wine, two loaves of bread and a sprig of wildflowers. Indeed my curiosity was piqued, as Himmel was not prone to such demonstrative table dressings, and I assumed he had found a new target for his affections. Yet I undertook my task, which was no easy feat, being forced to beg a bandage basket from the staff of the Wehrmacht field hospital, whereupon I spent some time washing bloodstains from the straw and drying it in the sun. The other items, although rare, were less difficult to acquire, as I had learned that to merely mention the title of an SS colonel would send the local French scurrying to fulfill such orders. Mind you, I was overly polite and accompanied my requests with an apologetic smile, as if that might diminish the undercurrent of hatred engendered by my uniform.
That evening, Himmel received the basket, complimented me on its arrangement, and awarded me an evening’s rest. He then ordered Edward to fetch the staff car, but he did not include me in his travel plans, as was nearly always custom. I saluted and returned to my quarters in the carriage house, yet in truth I felt rather like a pouting child denied a parental outing. And when after an hour or so Edward returned, he declined to share the evening’s events, which further stirred the embers of my sense of rejection. Yet I quickly swept such foolishness aside. After all, the Colonel was entitled to some semblance of privacy, even from myself.
During the next two days my musings were stifled, as I labored at my master’s feet from dawn till dusk. Despite the theoretical respite of the Commando, Himmel never allowed the men to slip into a state of comfortable sloth. He structured many hours of intense training and review, during which the men simulated assaults over various types of terrain. Using live ammunition and hauling every item of heavy gear that might be required in long-range combat, they sprinted across open fields and leapfrogged through snow-swept woods. They vaulted over fences and hurled live grenades and detonated abandoned buildings, while Himmel sprinted along with each participating element, shouting corrections and berating those who lagged or erred, somewhat like a hard-bitten soccer coach with an endless supply of energy and oxygen. Of course, I was forced to match my master step for step, recording his grades and comments in a log, until my leg muscles twitched, my lungs felt afire, my fingers were utterly frozen and my head pounded from the din.
At the end of each day, he bade me join the troop in accuracy drills, and in truth I felt a swell of pride when he ordered that I familiarize myself with the MP40 machine pistol, a frightening device our foes had dubbed the “Schmeisser.” However, throughout these efforts I found myself continuously returning to curiosity, wondering if in fact the basket of treats meant that the Colonel had attempted another courting of Gabrielle Belmont. If this was the case, I had no doubt that he had failed to crack her resolve, and found myself wishing to see her once more, if only to be sure that she had not been summarily executed for her stubborn pride.
And so, when I did see her again, the circumstances stunned me.
That Friday eve, I drew Himmel a steaming bath, and he washed away the grit of a training day and dressed carefully in his cleanest uniform. He then ordered the staff car brought around, this time with myself accompanying, and summoned a light truck with four armed privates as well.
“Intelligence reports indicate a growing French resistance in the area,” he explained as I presented him with a fresh eye patch and tried not to stare into the awful black hole of his missing orb. “Make sure the guard stays at a polite but effective distance, Shtefan.”
I did not inquire as to the nature of the excursion, as I was temporarily overwhelmed by the realization that the Colonel was placing me in some sort of charge. The burden of his trust at once swelled my head and frightened me, and I quickly speculated that the small bodyguard of SS might scoff at any attempts on my part to herd them. However, being the Colonel’s adjutant, and in effect the ranking noncommissioned officer present, afforded me with some power I would not hesitate to effect.
The small convoy of the staff car and light truck then wound its way toward Le Pontet. The canvas cover of the following lorry had been stripped away, and the four privates sat beneath the skeletal canopy, their “Schmeisser” machine pistols facing outboard, their helmets gleaming in the moonlight. Himmel sat in his position behind me in our Kübelwagen, humming and tapping on his knee, and Edward seemed to have run the route before. We soon entered the eastern fringe of the town, and when I again saw the finned bomb in the front garden of Gabrielle’s home, I realized that this was no secret rendezvous with some undercover Abwehr agent. This was a date.
Himmel dismounted the staff car, set his officer’s cap at a slight angle, and strode up the slate walk to the door of the house. He rapped twice with his gloved knuckles, about-faced and immediately returned to the car, where he stood as stiffly as a chauffeur. I confess that I felt both a thrill and a surge of dismay as Gabrielle emerged from her house. Had she so quickly succumbed to my master’s charm? Had it required no more than barely fermented wine, stale bread and dried flowers to break her stalwart spirit? Yet if Gabrielle was in fact defeated, that surrender was unexpressed in her proud demeanor. She was wearing a long black cloak belted at her small waist, a pair of short laced boots and woolen gloves, all somewhat threadbare to be sure, yet her golden hair piled atop her head and her perfect posture drew attentions to her rose-cheeked face and nothing else. She walked to the staff car and entered gracefully as Himmel bowed briefly, and I felt myself blush as her gaze did not, even for one instant, fall upon me.
The convoy then moved off to the market section of the town. No matter the dire circumstances of hardship and hunger, the French somehow managed to ignore the war, and each night a pair of Le Pontet’s cafés remained open, whether or not there were sufficient foodstuffs or drinks to be served. Edward pulled up to a small establishment called L’Ours Blanc, the White Bear, which had clearly been no more than a pub prior to the war, but was now the prime restaurant of the town. It had a pair of large multipaned windows astride a heavy wooden door, and the glow of table candles from inside set the frosted glass t
o wavering with golden hues. The crackled voice of some French chanteuse seeped from a gramophone through the wooden timbers.
I was out of the staff car before Edward had set the hand brake, and I opened Himmel’s door and stood smartly aside as he emerged and turned, offering a gloved hand to Gabrielle. She was shortly beside him, and I carefully avoided meeting her eyes, focusing only on my master as he quickly perused the area. He then faced me and placed his left hand on my shoulder, while pointing with his right hand first to one outside corner of the White Bear, then to the other, and then to the recessed doorway of a house across the street. I clicked my heels, and he and Gabrielle walked off to their dinner.
My heart was hammering now as I smoothed my uniform and set my courage in its place, for I had never before issued an order to anyone else on earth, unless it was such as relayed on behalf of the Colonel. I took in a long breath and walked to the light truck, where the four privates had taken to lounging in the back and rolling cigarettes. I stood there looking at them for a moment, and in perfect impersonation of my master’s postures, joined my hands behind my back.
“Ja, Fish?” The eldest of this group, a large Berliner with a granite jaw named Rolf, regarded me as if I was disturbing his Sunday morning slumber. I had to be quick, or be lost.
“One man at that corner,” I said curtly as I gestured. “Another at that one, and the other two over there in the alcove.”
Rolf slowly sat up on the truck bench, piercing me with a steely gaze as he licked the flap of his cigarette.
“Are you giving us orders now, Fish?”
“Yes, I am,” I snapped. “And tonight, it is not ‘Fish.’ It is Rottenführer Brandt, and if you are not on guard within thirty seconds, I can summon the Colonel and have him issue the order.”
I did not move or change my expression, mostly due to my frozen state of utter terror. Yet my stance seemed to have its effect, and after regarding one another for a moment or two, the four commandos muttered some curses, hopped to the ground and made off for their posts.
“And no smoking,” I added without looking at them as I walked back to the staff car to join Edward.
“Very impressive,” he grunted as we stood beside the Kübelwagen. “God help you if they catch you alone this weekend.”
“God help them if they fail to follow a superior’s orders,” I replied, feeling quite besotted with my newfound power. Edward looked at me, pursed his lips, and nodded his approval.
I did not, for the remainder of the evening, glance even once inside the establishment. I could not bear to witness the ease with which Gabrielle had surrendered her spirit, nor could I entertain images of her further conquering to come.
During the fortnight that followed, my master continued his courtship apace. Thus, I was privy to a different Himmel, a polite and mannered gentleman, albeit one whose concepts of romantic seduction even seemed strategized and structured. He would train the men very hard for two days, and on the second night he would repeat the exercise of dinner with Gabrielle. One evening we escorted the couple to a mountain château, where the Wehrmacht’s 19th Army subsidized a Vichy family’s dinner establishment, and Himmel was proud to parade his newfound beauty among so many of his envious peers. On another unusually mild eve, Mutti the cook was sent out to a sheltered clearing in a pretty wood, where he prepared a roaring bonfire, a roasting pit of chicken, and a perfectly dressed table so that the Colonel and Gabrielle could dine in comfort beneath the stars.
During each of these excursions, I played my role as commander of the guard, and apparently the task began to fit me well, as my orders were no longer met with challenge from the troop. I never witnessed the social exchanges between Himmel and his beauty, focusing only on the immediate environment, alert as a rottweiler to any threat, and refusing to admit to myself that this professional enthusiasm might stem from some other emotion. As for the training days between, I began to embrace them and look forward to them, my physical strength and ability to keep up growing from some inner well of rage not yet comprehended. There was even one long day of a forced march in full battle dress, which lasted for nearly twenty hours, and during which I marched beside my master step for step, surprising both him and myself and certainly the commandos who labored to keep pace.
After a week, Himmel summoned me and handed me a folded note, ordering me to deliver it to Gabrielle’s home. As I bowed and made to leave his office, he barked from behind his desk.
“And no flirting, Shtefan,” he said. “She’s mine.”
I turned to him, blushing and about to protest, and I found him smiling hard, then bursting into a fit of laughter with my expression. I summoned a grin to match his own, clicked my heels and went off to saddle Blitzkrieg.
Approaching the closed door of the barn, I stopped short and stood very still, listening to a raucous exchange coming from within.
“You think Himmel’s going to bed his blonde bitch?”
“Which one? Gabrielle, or Fish?!”
When the laughter receded, there was this.
“Don’t make light of Brandt. He’s doing well.”
“Well? He’s doing too well. He thinks he’s regular SS.”
“Ja, the fucker’s been ordering us about like a Reichsführer.”
“Leave him alone. He just follows his orders, like any of us.”
“You think so? One of these days he’s going to put a bullet in your skull and take over your platoon!”
This last comment evoked so much laughter that I chose that moment to enter the barn, suppressing my own smile as I did so. On the heels of their discussion, the commandos looked at me and blinked. Then, a wiry corporal named Noss came to his feet and stood at attention, his sea green eyes gleaming merriment. The rest of them quickly followed the joke, all coming erect and standing straight and stiff, and as I blushed a deep crimson and hurried to my horse, they collapsed in a flailing pile of twitching mirth.
When I arrived at the home of Gabrielle, I did so sporting my newly developed air of strength and reserve. Once again, she was working in the garden, and Blitzkrieg trotted up beside her fence and stopped. I greeted her politely yet with a studied chill, and handed her the note as she approached. She read it briefly and nodded, placing it in the pocket of her coat.
As I lifted Blitzkrieg’s reins to flick them, Gabrielle cocked her head at me and spoke.
“Do you judge me, Shtefan Brandt?”
I could not reply at first. Because I did indeed judge her. I was furious and frustrated and felt an amorphous sense of betrayal, and I had no idea why.
“It is not for me to judge, mademoiselle,” I said.
She nodded slowly twice, and she reached up to stroke Blitzkrieg’s glossy neck, and he looked at her.
“Do you judge your horse, then?” she posed.
“For what?” I frowned.
“For whinnying when you shoe him.”
“No.” My brow furrowed further.
“Of course not,” she said. “Because you can imagine what it must be like, to have a blacksmith’s nails driven into your feet.”
She was shortly gone, and with her analogy echoing in my brain, I galloped home like a race jockey.
Himmel’s note had been an invitation to dinner, but this time at his quarters, and the next evening Edward drove to fetch Gabrielle. I was gratefully excused from attendance to this soirée, a task left to Mutti, who was ordered to concoct a gourmet repast of goods scrounged far and wide. I remained in the carriage house, feeling edgy and cross, and I sipped from a bottle of cooking schnapps and reread the same passage over and over again, from a book whose title I do not recall. When at last, sometime after 11:00 p.m. Mutti returned, both Edward and I looked up from our bedrolls, expecting an order to escort Gabrielle back to Avignon. But the cook only shrugged, and forming a circle with one hand, he pumped a long finger back and forth within. Edwar
d laughed and covered his head with his blanket, soon to snoring.
For over an hour, I could not sleep, but only tossed and turned in those tortures of insomnia which are rarely physical. At last, I decided to visit the latrine, a long deep ditch dug in the ground beyond the barn, and I somewhat staggered there in my boots and braced trousers. My body beneath a long-sleeved undershirt quaked with the cold, and having buttoned up my trousers again, I intended to hurry back to my bed. Yet as I looked at the main house in the distance, my feet defied my good sense, and I was drawn to quench my morbid curiosity, or something else.
I moved in silence across the soaked slim grass, past puffs of glistening snow, and my eyes flicked over the estate. The Commando always posted a guard outside the barn, but on nights such as these he was permitted to stand inside the door for stretches of defrosting, and there was no human shadow about. I stopped in the lee of a large tree, watching, listening. The main house was dark, save a single window that barely flickered with a candle’s glow, and I deftly moved to one corner of the mansion like a burglar. My breaths were coming hot and quick, and I strove to limit the plumes of steam emerging from my mouth, taking the frozen air through my nose. I waited, listening again, yet here no squeals pierced the night, no tortured grunts. It appeared that my master had continued his courtship in gentlemanly fashion, perhaps offering Gabrielle the small second-floor anteroom as quarters for the night. There came to me only a faint and rhythmic knocking, perhaps the swing of a cellar door in the wind.
I nearly bolted then, and well should have, but I could not. Instead, I slipped silently along the rear wall of the house, until my nose touched the frame of one large window, and just the pupil of my eye inched around to the glass.
The Soul of a Thief Page 8
