Commander Amanda Nightingale

by George Revelli

  "Have you mentioned this to her?"

  "No, for the simple reason that it seems just as ridiculous to me as it does to you."

  Amanda appeared barefoot in skirt, blouse, and apron, and with a worried look on her face. Her hair was braided, and the braids piled in a crown on top of her forehead, like a Lorelei.

  "What do you want, you swash-buckling little madcap?" Scappini demanded.

  "How many trout do you have?" Amanda asked anxiously.

  "Seven."

  "That's really not enough. I'm sure your friend Captain Mueller will want at least two."

  "Mandy, dear," said Scappini.

  "Do not call me by that name," said Amanda with asperity. "What's the matter with you, Heinrich? Are you not capable of common politeness?"

  "Quite right," said Bimbo.

  "In the words of Montherlant," said Scappini " 'On paye les femmes pour qu'elles viennent, et on les paye pour qu'elles s'en aillent. С'est leur destin' ".

  "I don't understand," said Bimbo. "I don't understand French."

  "It means you pay them to come, and you have to pay to get rid of them. Amanda, we know seven are not enough. If we thought seven were enough we wouldn't be sitting here fishing for more, would we? Scram."

  Amanda said sweetly, "Are you aware what month it is?"

  "It's May."

  Amanda stooped with grace and gathered the gasping trout in a tin pan. She walked away, but turned, and with glorious dignity said, "Captain Scappini, I am afraid you are uninformed on the psychology of the trout. In May the trout distrust fishermen who spin with dry fly. If, instead, you cast with wet fly, I think you would catch many more, with less labour." And with that she swept back to the schoolhouse.

  Scappini asked his friend. "Is that touché?"

  "That is touché indeed," said Bimbo, yelling with laughter.

  The men's eyes followed her movements. "She really is a beautiful girl," said Scappini.

  "I have never seen anything more beautiful in my life," said Bimbo.

  "But the voice, Bimbo, the voice I Imagine spending the rest of a lifetime with that voice. 'Instead of spinning with dray flay, you carst with wet flay'."

  "You speak perfect English," said Bimbo. "I don't. The subtleties of accent are beyond me. I can't tell the difference between an Englishman or an American or a Scotsman."

  "That accent is strictly special," said Scappini. "The only way to shut it up is to…" and he added something unspeakably vile.

  "She appeals to me," said Bimbo. "She's a lady. I'm a gentleman."

  They were interrupted by a scream from the schoolhouse. "Mueller has arrived!"

  * * *

  Amanda hated Bernhard Mueller from the start. For one thing he was in uniform. He clattered up the road on a heavy motorcycle, and the removal of his goggles made circles of white in a black face, like a minstrel. He slapped dust in clouds from a grey field uniform that was heavily enriched with ribbons, an Iron Cross, Second Class, the fouragère of a tank squad. His cap was set at an arrogant angle, and his riding breeches were snapped outward. Until now, Amanda had been alone with her friends in an empty universe. Suddenly the door had blown open and the world had swept in, in a gust. Her navel was re-knotted to the twentieth century, the war, the internal combustion engine, Hitler, the Germans.

  She was even more put out to see the genuine delight with which he was greeted by her three friends. She had thought nobody existed for them except each other, and was astonished to recognize in her own discomposure as the pangs of jealousy. The four of them had been a little club, excluding all others. They simply did not have the right to like this stranger as much as they liked her. They stood around as he washed his face and hands vigorously in captured American Lux. They were even ignoring her to talk to him. His manner, over champagne, repelled her even more. He was dark and oily in his conversation, opinionated, with thick, almost Semitic lips, at the corners of which a little foam of spittle gathered when he talked.

  His collar was open for comfort, he talked volubly of common friends whose names meant nothing to her, and his condescension in insisting on talking in English to her was infuriating. She could speak German very well, thank you. If only Heinrich, Bimbo, and Erika looked as bored as she felt, as they must be feeling. But, on the contrary, they listened apparently intent on every word. Of course they were only being polite.

  And when he had finished, it was their turn, and Amanda's distaste turned to excruciating embarrassment. Heinrich spoke in English, laughing through his words. "There we had Amanda, bare to the waist, screaming her head off thinking she was hurt. It wasn't until later she found out that she liked it…"

  Amanda's face went scarlet, and she wished she would die. She kept her eyes on the plate so they would not have the pleasure of seeing her rage, ate her fish with small angry bites. Mueller's laughter went through her like needles, and what was worse, Erika laughed too. At least she might have sympathized.

  "…And then," Heinrich went on, "as soon as Bimbo came out, I went in. I assure you, it was no sens unique! Afterward Erika grabbed her for the night, fought us off like a wildcat protecting her young. Amanda knew nothing about it, though. She was dead drunk…"

  Amanda was aware of Mueller contemplating her. But even now her cup of horror was not drained. They went on to tell her how they planned to hand her back to the Maquis. The sacred, almost unmentionable name of Lucien was tossed around casually. Mueller picked his teeth and said, "I have some good advice for you, Amanda."

  Amanda almost choked. The words spilled to the tip of her tongue. "My name is Mrs. Nightingale, if you don't mind," but she stopped in time, because she could imagine the derision such a remark would arouse.

  "Pass the salt, Mandy," said Scappini. Amanda glared hate at him. Scappini knew her too well. He had recognized her resentment, and was relishing every moment of it.

  "When you get to Lucien, Amanda," said Mueller picking his teeth with toothpicks that Erika had placed solicitously by his side, "establish your identity as quickly as you can. Make sure they know you are English, and above all don't let him know we helped you."

  "May I ask why?" said Amanda.

  "May ay arsk way?" Scappini mimicked. Scappini was getting drunk. Amanda ignored him.

  "Because expectation of imminent invasion has made the French cocky. They are shaving the heads of French girls who sleep with Germans."

  "What, bald?" Bimbo asked laughing.

  "Absolutely. Amanda is officially a French girl and she has been unquestionably sleeping with Germans."

  Amanda was about to exclaim, "I have not," when she was forced to admit to herself that no matter how she looked at it, she most unquestionably had.

  "Mein Gott!" said Erika putting her hands to her head. Amanda sneered.

  "You are all right, Erika," said Mueller. "You are German. This is one of the very few occasions when it is an advantage for someone to be German. Usually it is better to be anything but. But Amanda could be in trouble."

  Amanda spoke sweetly, as she would to a disagreeable child brought by friends, to whom she was obliged to be polite although her desire would be to box his ears. "I am sorry," she said, "but I do not believe you."

  "Saw half a dozen of them with my own eyes at Cherbourg," said Mueller.

  Amanda articulated her vowels with great beauty. "I think I know rather more about the French than you do. I can imagine you Germans doing such a terrible thing, but not the French." She was not to be deterred by the roars of laughing protest. "I spent much time with the French people before the war. And I don't mean society people or tout Paris or anything like that, but among quite ordinary people. Daddy sent me to perfect my French and I lived for six months with the family of the trainer of the Count of Romilly's racing stable, afterward with a farming family, and I know what I am talking about."

  "You are sometimes awfully prunkvoll, Amanda," said Erika. "How does one say prunkvoll in English?"

  "Pompous."

  "I
am not prunkvoll," said Amanda furiously, "and if anyone else calls me prunkvoll I shall leave the table."

  Heinrich jabbed a finger at her. "Mueller says he saw them. Girls with their heads shaved, you blonde idiot."

  "I do not believe him," said Amanda.

  Mueller gave Amanda up as a bad job, and addressed the others. "Most of the girls wear kerchiefs around their heads, but I did see one buying bread in a boulangerie, skull like an egg. I spoke to her."

  "How? What happened?"

  "Everyone was avoiding her. Her presence, like the presence of a priest, created silence, air. The boulanger deliberately missed her hand which was held out for the change, and the tin coins fell into the sawdust. Watched by the other women in the shop, she stooped down, picked up the money and left, her bread in a string bag, her bald head gleaming. It was difficult to tell whether, with hair, she would have been pretty or not — the taste of our German soldiers in matters of love does not always match their valour in the field, as you know. But she had a saucy air, and I gathered my courage and spoke to her…"

  "Do you like your girls bald, Bernhard?" Erika asked, her eyes luminous.

  Mueller ignored her. "I said, 'Excuse me, Mademoiselle, may I help you in any way? She looked at me and her eyes were impudent. 'Why Captain, how could you help me? I noticed she called me Capitaine, not топ Capitaine as a peasant girl would have done. I said, 'You have been made the victim of some German association. We cannot divorce ourselves of responsibility and we have means to protect you from persecution. She gave a rich laugh and said, 'Where will you hide me? In one of your concentration camps? Will you bury me in a Berlin cellar along with the rest of the Berliners? Will you send me to keep the Wehrmacht comfortable on the Russian front? Will I be succoured in what remains of the monastery at Monte Cassino? I am afraid your German world is not quite big enough to offer any protection to anybody. I did not know what to say, and she continued. 'Protect yourself, Captain. You will need all the protection you can get when the Americans arrive'."

  "Didn't she mention the British?" Amanda asked.

  "The girl then tapped her head, and said 'Don't, for one moment think that this bald pate of mine symbolizes any love for the Germans or your absurd Chariot of a Fuehrer. I loved one German, who is now dead in Russia. If I could keep my head bald in his memory I would do so. But it doesn't matter. It really doesn't matter. My hair will grow. But something else is growing in me too. Protect yourself well, Captain. She turned and walked away with her groceries. The women ostentatiously stood aside and the men spat on the ground as she passed."

  The story left the little party silent. Even Amanda could think of nothing to say. Mueller stubbed out the butt of his cigar, sucked his teeth and said, "Well, comrades, sorry to run after this delicious lunch, but I must get back to Paris. I shall be here with the convoy tomorrow night." He looked at his watch. "Just time for a quick go at Amanda, and then off."

  Amanda looked at him for a moment uncomprehending. "I beg your pardon?" she said.

  "Come on," said Mueller, and asked Scappini, "Which room do we use?"

  The unexpectedness of sheer impertinence of the remark left Amanda breathless. She opened and closed her mouth several times before she was able to gasp, "You will do nothing of the kind!"

  "Go on, Amanda," said Scappini. "Do as you are told."

  "I absolutely refuse," Amanda yelled.

  "Amanda," said Scappini, in pain. "Captain Mueller is helping to save your life."

  "I don't care. I won't be made love to by this man."

  "I'm not going to make love to you," said Mueller. "I'm just going to lay you."

  "No question of it. Please change the subject."

  "Lord, these English lilies," said Scappini. "They play their little war games in the north of Scotland. They shout 'Bang! bang! and think that war is a mere extension of a Girl Guides' Jamboree. They never think what's at the other end, at Ravensbruck, where they all end up."

  "They do not," said Amanda raging. "In London we know every move you make. Our girls send it back."

  "Amanda, Amanda," said Scappini. "It's German counterintelligence that is sending it back, and your old-school-tie boys in Baker Street fall for it every time. Counter-intelligence does nothing about torture, but it uses information which the Gestapo has strained out of your girls. Why do you think you were captured as soon as you landed? Do you think it was an accident? Bad luck? Take it from me, some little Yvette somewhere, in some office of counter-intelligence, is sending all sorts of interesting messages. That is one of the facts you are going to have to take back with you. You are a joke. You a pretty little dinosaurs not meant for survival in Festung Europa. Amanda, Zuckerpüppchen, do you know what the Gestapo does to the girls it captures?"

  "I don't want to hear."

  "I'm bloody sure you don't. The only reason they are not doing it to you at this very minute is because we four, including Mueller, are helping to save your life. Have you ever heard of passer á la mandoline? "

  "Please don't, Heinrich, I do beg you," said Amanda, disturbed.

  "Passer à la mandoline means to pass a mandolin wire between your thighs and lift you up on it."

  "Mein Gott," said Erika going white.

  "It goes through your parts like the wire of an Spicier going through cheese. Do you know what it is like to have your bones scraped?"

  Amanda and Erika both put their hands to their ears, but they could not shut out the voice. "A thin needle is inserted into the flesh until it reaches the bone. It scrapes until it reaches the marrow, and continues scraping until every bone in your body is screaming. It leaves no more than a small red flush on the flesh. One of the Gestapo's favourite methods of scraping the bones is to insert the needle into the eyehole of the nipple of your…"

  "Stop it!" Amanda screamed.

  "That is one of the things that Mueller is risking his life to save you from. Now go."

  "Please don't make me go," Amanda cried. "Bimbo, don't let them."

  Bimbo shrugged unhappily. "It's one of the rules of the game, Amanda," he said. Amanda looked appealingly at Erika, but saw in her eyes only amusement. Amanda decided she had never hated any woman in her life as much as she hated Erika.

  "Hurry up," said Scappini, implacable. "You don't want to go to London feeling that we think of you as a nasty ungrateful girl, do you?"

  Miserably, Amanda followed Mueller, who was unlocking his belt. In the bedroom he contemplated her body laughing. "The boys gave you a thrashing," he said. Amanda did not hear. She herself was looking at Mueller in absolute horror. He was constructed in such a way that if the same disproportion existed in any generally visible part of his anatomy, he would be considered deformed. Nothing of what she had recently experienced, nothing that she had ever read in the textbooks prepared her for such a condition. Horrid analogies, like a baguette of French bread, or Cyrano de Bergerac, came to her appalled brain.

  "I can't," she panted. "I mean I just couldn't. I mean, I'm just not big enough."

  "Oh yes," said Mueller amiably. "It is easier than it looks."

  But it was not. Amanda thought she would split, that she would never be the same again. She pulled her knees up to her shoulders and as widely apart as she could. She felt like a scarecrow, like the tatters of the scarecrow flapping helplessly and torn around the central pole. At each tremendous thrust she was certain she would rip and die. Nor was Mueller content with that. He filled her mouth with his tongue, exploring her gums, choking her. And when she thought the horror and pain was beyond all endurance, came the worst twist of all. Scappini and Erika came in without knocking, and looked at them. "How is it?" Scappini asked politely, as though they were at a flower show.

  Mueller slowly withdrew his tongue from Amanda's mouth and turned without stopping his action. Amanda put her hands over her face and screamed. "Go away. Oh, please leave the room. Please!"

  "It's all right," said Mueller breathlessly. "But you people here makes me feel I'm doing i
t in the middle of Anhalter Station."

  "Anhalter has been bombed," said Erika. "Are you enjoying it, Amanda? I told you Bernhard was fabulous."

  "Please go," Amanda pleaded. "Don't let Bimbo see me like this."

  "Like what?" said Scappini. "With your knees up like Mother Brown? I think you look sweet. Bimbo! Amanda wants you to see her!"

  "No!" Amanda screamed.

  Mueller's climax filled her with such a flood of hot, liquid agony that she shouted "Oh, God!" unaware whether Bimbo was there or not, blind to the faces of the spectators, who laughed at her. Afterwards she lay moaning on the bed, unable to move at all. She felt torn and filthy. Mueller dried himself and tossed the towel onto her loins, making her flinch. Reflexively, weakly, her eyes closed, she wiped herself between her thighs.

  "Was she as good as me?" she heard Erika ask Mueller.

  "Of course not, darling. You are the greatest. She was rotten, as a matter of fact. Glorified masturbation."

  "You only say that," said Erika, glowing at the praise, "because I'm one of the few girls you know who can take all of you."

  "You really have the most extraordinary build, Mueller," said Scappini. "When I haven't seen you for some time, I cease to believe you could possibly exist in the form you do. But, as I always say, it isn't the size, it's the technique that counts. Am I not right, Amanda?"

  Amanda did not want to cry in front of her tormentors. She fought down her sobs, her rib cage quivering. Mueller dressed. "So long, Amanda," he said, "thanks for the service, and bon voyage."

  As they left the room, she heard Scappini say, "Amanda might have said 'Same to you'. But they have no manners, the British upper-middle classes. I remember when I came down from Oxford…"

  Alone, Amanda gave way completely to tears. She cried like a little girl. Her body heaved and trembled and when she became aware that she was in the arms of Bimbo, she clutched him feverishly, great sobs rasping up from her chest. "Please tell me you didn't watch me with the others, Bimbo!" she cried. "Please tell me."