Vengeance 10

by Joe Poyer

  ‘Yes …. he managed to force out.

  ‘Yes what?’ the man prompted.

  ‘I was in the Place Emile-Dupon ... yesterday.’

  ‘Was it not rather an unpleasant day for taking the air?’

  ‘Yes ... but Sunday is the only day I have, otherwise ...’

  ‘I see. And while you were at the Place Emile-Dupon did you meet anyone?’

  Christ, Memling thought, they know. The bastards were playing a game with him.

  His vision was clearing as his eyes adapted to the glare, and the faces were beginning to take on detail.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And who would that have been?’

  Memling twisted his hands together as if embarrassed, and drew a deep breath. Dissemble, they had told him in the all-too- brief training classes. Confirm enough of their story that they may believe your lies.

  ‘I... met’ - he took a deep breath - ‘a girl.’

  ‘Ah. And why should you be shy? Certainly you are a normal, healthy young man. Tell me, please, what you and this young lady talked about? By the way, what is her name?’

  The Gestapo officer was watching him closely now, and Memling realised with a shock that he had seen that gaunt, skull-like face before: the man on the train! My God, he thought, as fresh waves of fear coursed through him, turning every muscle in his body to water. Do they know who I am?

  He struggled against the panic, knowing that if he gave way now he would lapse into grovelling terror, and the thought brought such intense shame and self-loathing that he stopped wringing his hands and tried to stand straight.

  As if to encourage him, Walsch chuckled. ‘Herr Diecker, whatever you tell me remains in the strictest confidence. Now, what was her name?’

  ‘Maria ... Kluensenayer,’ he choked. There was nothing to be lost by telling him. Walsch was certain to know anyway, probably had known the instant she sat down beside him. He could anticipate the next question, and the answer was beginning to form in his mind as it was asked.

  ‘My my, the secretary to the director of production. Now, what would you two find to talk about?’

  Memling took a deep breath. ‘We did not talk very long, sir. I …. asked -I asked her to come to my room,’ he finished with a rush.

  ‘And?’

  ‘She left.’

  ‘Left? Just like that?’

  Memling let his head droop a little more. ‘Yes . . . no. She slapped me.’

  ‘I shouldn’t wonder. Whatever possessed you, young man? Do you know her very well? Did you have reason to believe that she might agree? What a dog you are! And so hasty. Don’t you know you must first court a young woman? They are all prostitutes and whores at heart, and so you must go about it correctly. First a present, then the theatre, and perhaps a meal in a fine restaurant.’ There was a dry chuckle. ‘Then you take the lady to your bed. Not before - and never, never ask.’

  ‘I ... I do not have the money for that sir.’

  ‘Not enough money!’ Walsch shook his head in exasperation. ‘Why, you have an excellent job, a responsible job. Surely you are not complaining about the salary paid you by the Reich?’

  ‘Oh no, sir,’ Memling replied hastily, already weary of the game. ‘It is not that, only... I...’ He shuffled his feet and rubbed his nose. ‘I... I am quite shy. You see, I am an orphan - ‘

  ‘Yes, yes, I know all that.’ For the first time Walsch had departed from the gentle chiding tone. ‘Where did you go after the whore rejected your advances?’

  Memling took a step towards him. ‘She is not a . . . a ... ’ He stopped as if unable to pronounce the word. Walsch raised a hand to stay the other man.

  ‘You treated her like a whore, so obviously you must think her one. Answer my question.’

  ‘I did... I went to the Parc de la Citadelle. I go there sometimes, to be alone.’

  ‘To the park? I see.’ More pages turned. ‘This woman, Maria, have you met her before, outside the works?’

  ‘No. No, sir,’ Memling answered, astonished that Walsch had not asked about the park and who it was he had met there. Didn’t he know?

  ‘But you have met her, spoken to her, inside the works?’ Bemused, Memling did not see where the trap was leading. ‘Yes, I have spoken to her ... in her office.’

  Walsch tapped the notebook. ‘In violation of the law forbidding personal intercourse during work hours?’

  ‘Ye - yes.’

  ‘Are you not aware that such violations are considered sabotage by the occupation authorities? And that sabotage is punished by hanging?’ Walsch’s voice had become cold.

  ‘Yes... but I ... thought perhaps a word ….’ What is he doing? Memling wondered. Didn’t they follow me to the citadel?

  ‘A word? Just a word? And next time it will be two words, and then several, and perhaps a long conversation will follow while your work suffers and the weapons needed by our front-line troops are not delivered on time and they are killed because you were compelled to speak to a whore,’ Walsch shouted.

  Memling could only remain silent. He had walked directly into the trap. His mind was in total confusion now. What was Walsch really after? If he had been followed to the citadel, they would surely have seen him with Paul.

  Walsch uttered the next words with no hint of threat. ‘You do realise that I could have you before a court-martial immediately and hanged before this evening? I can assure you the execution is most unpleasant. Perhaps you would be interested to know the procedure? One’s last moments should be meaningful, their significance understood. As sabotage is the worst crime one can commit, the government has decreed that the method of execution should be made a deterrent to others. Therefore the prisoner is stripped to the waist and paraded before his fellows who are assembled to watch. The gallows bar is placed some three metres above the ground, so the victim’s struggles are plainly visible to all.’ Walsch’s voice had taken on a grotesque humour.

  ‘The prisoner is mounted on a footboard. A wire noose is placed about his neck and snugged up so that there is no slack. At a signal the footboard is withdrawn leaving the prisoner to strangle. It can take as long as ten minutes to die if the hangman places the noose correctly. As you might imagine, it is very unpleasant. And that, my friend, by your own admission, is the penalty which awaits you, this very afternoon.’

  Even through the intense fear that seemed to have shut out everything else, it was becoming clear to Memling what was happening. The Gestapo knew who he was. The files had disgorged his name in response to his fingerprints. But Walsch could not possibly admit to having overlooked a British spy in a most sensitive position all these months, particularly one who had escaped him once before. So Walsch had waited to see where he would lead them. Somehow the meeting with Paul had been missed, but not the one with Maria, and that meant she was now under Gestapo suspicion as well. Now that they had a connection, there was no further need for him. He could be eliminated and at the same time provide a cheap lesson in continued obedience. The floor shifted and he staggered, nauseated by fear. The thought of strangling to death from a wire noose ...

  ‘ ... be a way to avoid such a severe penalty,’ Walsch continued. ‘After all, death is rather a severe penalty for speaking to an attractive woman, a temptation to which anyone may give way.’ Memling closed his eyes, shutting out the light, the sound, everything, as he struggled to understand what the Gestapo officer was saying. ‘How?’ he choked.

  ‘If you are willing to co-operate with me, I may be persuaded to intercede with the court. It has happened that such charges have been greatly reduced if the service rendered is of sufficient importance.’

  Gaunt to the point of emaciation, Walsch smiled. He lit a cigarette and, as an afterthought, offered one to Memling. Feigning gratitude, Memling accepted and lit it from the match Walsch held for him.

  ‘It really is quite a simple task. And quite pleasant, I might add. In fact, I might even be doing you an unexpected favour.’ Memling waited, sucking greedily at the c
igarette in spite of the harshness of the German tobacco that must have been half dried oak leaves.

  ‘This woman, Maria Kluensenayer, is of interest to you, of course. You must therefore continue with your suit. Become friendly with her, spend time with her. I am quite interested in knowing what she does in her spare time.’

  ‘Maria,’ Memling blurted out. ‘But she is ….’

  ‘A whore.’

  Memling blinked.

  ‘A whore,’ Walsch repeated. ‘That, however, is beside the point. Except,’ he added, chuckling, ‘as it makes your task easier and more pleasant.’

  ‘That is all you want me to do ...?’

  ‘Yes. If you agree, I am willing to suspend the charges for the moment.’

  ‘For the moment?’ Memling could not keep the bitterness from his voice.

  ‘Do not try my patience,’ Walsch warned. ‘Remember the wire noose. A few days’ grace?’ He stubbed out his cigarette and glanced at Memling. ‘You do understand?’

  ‘But I do not have ... ’

  ‘You what? Speak up!’

  Memling was shaking badly. ‘She will have nothing to do with me,’ he gabbled. ‘I do not have money. I am not the kind she ...’

  ‘That is your problem.’ Walsch waved a hand in dismissal. ‘You have three days, until Friday afternoon.’

  No one said a word about the blood-encrusted abrasions on his forehead or the stiffness with which he carried himself when he returned to the laboratory. The double vision persisted, and bouts of nausea assailed him. The door to the director’s office remained tightly shut. The attention of the Gestapo was the curse of death.

  Jan Memling knew he was under surveillance. They wanted him to know. A black Volkswagen followed him wherever he went through the streets of Liege. No one spoke to him or looked at him, and even his landlady hurried inside and slammed her door when he returned in the evening. That first night, in the refuge of his dingy room, he wrapped himself in the blanket and, too frightened to eat, sat staring at the blackout curtains long into the night, waiting for the shivering to stop and the fear to abate to its usual tolerable level. But like the nausea that wracked him at regular intervals, it refused to do so. He was under no illusions that his life would extend beyond his immediate usefulness to Walsch. If the Gestapo agent knew who he was, he would also know that he must have a connection to the resistance. Was Walsch gambling that Maria was that connection?

  For the first time in weeks he allowed himself to think of Margot. Her features were there, just beyond memory, eluding him now in a way he had never thought possible. Until tonight he had sought to dismiss her, to ignore the intense longing thoughts of her always induced, and he had done so successfully enough that she was slipping away. They had married a year ago, the previous October, after her mother had finally succumbed to a combination of disease and pent-up bile.

  There had been a week’s leave for a honeymoon in the Lake District where he had obtained a tiny cottage overlooking the far north end of Lake Windermere. Indian summer was giving way to autumn, and the wind blustered with rain. Inside, Jan kept the fire high, and between long, soothing stretches of lovemaking they had taken walks in the hills, discovering one vantage point after another as the lake displayed its moods: iron-grey under the lash of rain, sapphire in the brief periods of intense sun. Dry leaves under graceful oaks amid golden sunshine had more than once served as a lovers’ couch. It had been quite as both expected it would be, loving and companionable after the years of impatient waiting. In the long evenings before the fire they had discovered unknown facets of each other’s character.

  He had never told Margot for whom he worked. She was still under the impression that he was employed by a small electrical appliance manufacturer. When he had left for Belgium that late April day, he had laughed at her fears about war on the Continent. After all, the war had been nearly eight months old and nothing much had happened since the previous September.

  Memling woke with a start. The image of Margot sitting across from him before the fire, the memory of her soft body beneath his in the high, handcrafted bed, her gentle laughter at his attempts to master the kitchen plumbing, were gone. He knew then that he would never see her again.

  By mid-afternoon, Thursday, Jan Memling had formulated his plan. It was desperate and full of loose ends, but anything was better than waiting to be slaughtered at Walsch’s command. The resistance had to be warned away, and he had to disappear. The Ardennes was the only possibility. There in the forest he might survive long enough to carry out a few acts of sabotage.

  Memling knocked on the director’s door with his excuse all prepared, a mistake in the projected production figures for the MG42. The director wrote his pass quickly and slammed the door. The mark of death, Memling thought grimly.

  Maria glanced up as he entered, and except for a slight tightening about her eyes at the sight of his bruises, she gave no indication that he meant any more to her than any other employee - and thereby signed her death warrant. Walsch would be watching her. When a woman shows no sign of recognising a man who three days earlier invited her into his bed, and whom she turned down with a public slap, she must be concealing something.

  Memling showed his pass and asked for the production estimates. The only other person in the room was an army sergeant. Memling watched her as he would have been expected to, and the German did likewise. As Maria straightened up from the file drawer the sergeant gave him a slow wink, and Memling grinned weakly.

  Drawing a slip of paper from his pocket, he unfolded the sheets on the counter and pretended to study them while Maria returned to her desk. After a moment he muttered a curse. Maria glanced up and he called her over.

  ‘These are not the correct sheets. I wanted numbers six to nine.’

  With an air of injured patience, Maria obtained a new set of papers. ‘Are these the ones?’ she asked in tones dripping with sarcasm. She waited while Memling unfolded the sheets and checked page numbers.

  ‘Yes. Thank you.’ His sarcasm matched hers, and under his breath he whispered as he bent forward, ‘The Gestapo saw us. They called me in yesterday.’

  The girl gave no sign that she had heard, but rolled her eyes in exasperation and flounced back to her desk. Just for an instant Memling was tempted to call her back and repeat the message, but it was far too dangerous. He would have to hope she understood. His face was flushed and his heart pounded as he gathered up the sheets and left.

  Walsch was waiting in the corridor. ‘I hope that you have made progress.’ He chuckled and walked away.

  The final whistle sounded, and he joined the throng of workers edging towards the gate. The sun was setting in a burst of colour, and it was intensely cold. The line shuffled forward, and as it rounded the building Memling saw with a sinking heart that the guards had been doubled. Troops in full combat gear stood elbow to elbow along the way leading to the barrier. Memling noticed that none of the workers were being motioned out of line. This kind of intense inspection was usually carried out only as a pretext for selecting deportees.

  As Memling neared the barrier a civilian stepped from the shed that housed the security offices, and spoke to an officer standing near the checkpoint. Wisps of vapour wreathed their heads as they talked, and then the civilian pointed directly at Memling. The officer turned, nodded, and sauntered towards the line of soldiers. The man went back to the shed, and Walsch appeared in the doorway. He smiled at Memling and nodded.

  Walsch motioned again with his head, and Memling turned. A gallows had been erected on a wheeled cart stored in the alley between two buildings. From the crossbeam glinted a wire noose. Memling swung around, anger overriding the shock of fear. His lips formed a single obscenity, and Walsch laughed and turned back into the shed.

  ‘Papers, you stupid bastard,’ a soldier shouted at him, and Memling jerked around to see that he was already at the barrier. He braced himself as Walsch appeared behind, grinning his death’s-head grin. The soldier had slung his ba
yoneted rifle over his right shoulder to leave both hands free to handle the papers. With any luck, Memling thought, I could take it from the guard. As he reached inside his coat for the papers he rehearsed the moves in his mind. With the rifle and bayonet he might kill two Nazis before they shot him down. With any luck, one would be Walsch. The guard took his papers, and Memling was suddenly elated. It was over. They would not dangle him from a wire noose today. He drew a breath, drunk with the cold, acrid tang that filled his throat and lungs.

  ‘Pass.’

  The barrier was open, and the guard motioned him on impatiently. Memling stumbled through, the sudden reversal draining away the adrenalin to leave him weak and nauseated. Somehow he found, and mounted, his bicycle. A trick, another damned trick to terrorise him, he realised. Walsch was playing with him, keeping him off balance with fear so that he would never know when they might drag him to the wire.

  Headlights swept over him, lighting up the street. He glanced over his shoulder at the thin slits of hooded light from the familiar Volkswagen.

  The explosion knocked him from the bicycle and spun him against the kerb. Dazed, he struggled to his knees just as the Volkswagen’s petrol tank went up in flames. A man flopped half out of a door, clothes burning. A figure dashed across the road, reached into the flames, and jumped back, holding a machine pistol triumphantly aloft for an instant before firing one shot into the burning man’s head. Several more shots were fired, and a lorry burst into the street. Figures jumped down, grabbed and hustled Memling into the back. A second explosion blew the Volkswagen to pieces, digging a huge crater in the street. Someone laughed, and the lorry lurched, backed, jerked once more, as it ran up and over the kerb to the sound of automatic weapons’ fire and a third, crashing explosion.

  The lorry raced through the narrow streets, throwing him from side to side on the splintered floorboards. Two men were framed against the open back as they crouched behind the tailboard, machine pistols pointing out. A match flared, and he turned to see Paul’s face illuminated a moment as he lit two cigarettes. He passed one to Memling.