by David Leroy
“Dr. Sumner Jackson, who is the snake, Torquette Jackson, who is the turtle, Marc Tolbert, who is the weasel.” Marc then puckered like a weasel, twitching his nose. He started to laugh out loud. Officer Sean was right. Everything he said about the Nazis had been right, and he was watching it right in front of his very eyes. The entire thing played out like some bizarre comedy.
The German agent then stopped. “Do you have anything to add to these charges, Weasel?”
Marc was shocked by the question because he had no idea that he would have an opportunity to add anything. The possibilities intrigued him. “You know almost everything. I am shocked at how detailed it is. I am stunned that you figured it out,” his voice came from another source, as if his body had been possessed from far away.
The agent smiled. “Yes. We are very thorough. You are not in the hands of the Milice here, Weasel,” he said proudly, his tone calm and even.
Marc looked at the huge chart behind the agent, with the cards laid out on the table in front of him and the cribbage board.
“I am not the weasel,” he barked, deciding to pick a fight.
The agent looked exasperated at Marc. “You are the weasel, Sumner is the snake, Torquette is the turtle. We know you are the weasel!”
“Because she told you,” Marc said slowly.
The agent smiled, “Not only that but, Winoc, your first name starts with ‘W,’ and that means you are the weasel. You are smart, very smart. You are the weasel.” The man is insanely stupid, Marc thought, even in his delusional sleepwalk.
“I am not the weasel,” Marc repeated in a sluggish tone.
“You are the weasel. The snake is the doctor who cares, who heals the birds. Torquette is the turtle who keeps them in her shell for protection, and you are the weasel who covers up the tracks and takes them away. Weasel, who is in the henhouse now? If I ask you, I am sure you would tell me it is the cow. Now, who is ‘Rabbit’?” the agent demanded of him. He almost pleaded, as if for his own life. “You have told me before you know.”
“You want an Iron Cross, you got to do better than that. I am not the weasel,” Marc said. He felt unsure of himself as he struggled to remain focused. His mind burned with a singular desire to fall asleep.
“You are the weasel, don’t lie. I am not a fool. Tell me who is ‘Rabbit’?” he asked again in a fatherly tone, full of concern and sympathy.
“I am not the weasel, and there is no rabbit,” Marc said, looking up at the board and all the various cards and names that meant nothing to him at all. It was completely and utterly a uniquely crazy fantasy of the German officer, created from the random things they had gathered at the two houses. Marc never expected any of these cards to mean anything at all, but here he was, fighting over them, screaming over them.
“You are the weasel, Marc! I know that! You know that! Marie knows that—everyone knows that. Who is …,” the agent continued on.
“I am ‘R!’” Marc’s voice burst open.
The agent froze at the desk. He turned around and looked at the board. Marc knew he now had the agent, because he never considered this possibility before and never expected Marc to confess to being ‘R.’ He could see how the agent was looking at the relationships, and trying to work them out. He could hear the German officer in his head. “Yes, give him what he wants. He wants that Iron Cross, Marc. This will go straight to the top, big report, important finding, critical to victory, promotion and medal …”
“Marie is the weasel,” Marc spurted out in laughter.
The agent turned and said, “You are lying. Marie is not the weasel. You are the weasel.” He was disgusted. “I do not believe you. Look at you. You are doing it now, covering up, and playing tricks trying to get out of this. You are a trickster, Marc. Just admit it.”
“Marc, Marc,” Officer Sean said as he came out from behind Marc. When did he get in here? Marc thought to himself. He smiled with warmth for him, feeling safe that he was in the room. “Pay attention to me and work with me. He wants the Iron Cross and you want the bread. Now, Marie is the weasel and you are ‘R.’ What is ‘R?’ Look, come on, Marc, I got some bread here for you,” Officer Sean said. Marc could see the Gestapo agent right through him.
Marc looked down at the table. The cards sat spread out in front of the cribbage board next to the plate of bread the agent had placed for him. His mind ran blank. He then looked up at the agent and said, “The rabbit is dead, but I am ‘R.’ I am the raven,” he said with just the right tone of defeat in his voice. The words rolled out from him with a complete sincerity. Of course he is the raven, Marc thought as he heard his own confession, but it surprised him that he had even said it, for he had no idea what it meant.
The agent turned back and looked straight into Marc’s eyes and then down at the cards. He scanned them quickly, finding the raven card. A smile broke across his face.
He snatched it up and tagged it to the board. The rabbit card he tossed back down upon the desk. The agent then stepped back and studied the cards.
Marc watched in total amazement at what a thoroughly insane pile of utter bullshit they had come up with from just a bunch of cards and names. He was slightly amused by the fact that he had to solve it for them. He felt a deep sense of well being that he was solving their problem while borderline insane, plus satisfied that he was able to include Marie’s name. The agent had his Iron Cross, and Marc had the last word about Marie.
The agent stood stunned and captivated by the beauty of his cards. It was as if he totally forgot that Marc was sitting in the room, waiting to be led to his cell. He took one last look at the cribbage board.
“You are lying. You cannot be the raven. You gave Marie your card. You told her, you are the weasel,” he snapped back at Marc.
“I am the raven. I steal the food, clothes, and supplies for the nest. I fetch for the turtle and the snake.” Marc was careful not to look up into the agent’s eyes until he said, “But the weasel is whoever must take the birds away. I did not tell Marie I am the weasel,” Marc was breathing deeply and his heart raced in his chest from the exhaustion. “I told her to say she is the weasel, because she had a bird to take away.”
The agent then picked up Marc’s identity card and saw for the first time the initials, “W” and “R,” for Winoc Rémy. He slammed the card against his head, and then down upon the table.
“You are both. You are a raven, but also the weasel, but only the weasel when you need to be. It is brilliant!” the agent said.
Then Officer Sean from Saint-Nazaire looked at Marc with pride. “Good job, Marc. He is going to get his Iron Cross. You have given him the promotion, the one he wants and needs. Now the bread is yours for the taking,” and then Marc saw him walk through the wall and out of the room.
The agent stood stunned at Marc’s confession. He had everything now: the snake, the turtle, and the raven. He had them all, and the weasel he had as well, and just did not know it. And he was proud because, now, not even Berlin had cracked this code. He had all the answers. The days and nights finally had paid off, and he was able to crack Marc himself without Marie’s help.
Then Marc asked what he had never asked before. He said words that had never come from him in all the days and nights of questioning.
“May I … May I now … have that bread,” Marc asked while looking at the plate next to the cribbage board.
The officer turned away from the board, and then down at the bread. He quickly picked it up and brought it to Marc and said, “Yes, you may, my raven.” Then he went to the door and called a guard, and then told the secretary to change the charges. He even brought in a sausage for Marc, and he ate it while they read the charges in French, “Marc, who is the raven, is charged with …”
The agent believed it. The woman believed it. Even Marc believed it as he ate their food. Yes, I am the raven, the stealer of the food, and you have your Iron Cross, but you will never get this sausage back from me, he thought. It is mine now, all mine. Marc wondered
if Officer Sean would return to play a game of cards as he devoured the precious sausage.
Marc stared at the board, which he had carried with him from 1940. He knew this would be the last time he would see it, and thought of the first time he had seen the wood.
“I suppose you must hate her,” the agent said next. Marc looked up from the board. “It is a curious thing that she saved your life not once, but twice.”
Marc’s body jerked a bit at the thought, and his mind did not have any memory of these supposed salvations from Marie.
“And how do you see that?”
“If it was not for her, I would have treated you as a Frenchman, and had you shot. But she is the one who helped us prove you are really an American so, for a while at least, you will live,” the agent said with a smile.
“That is only once,” Marc said, half asleep.
“Oh, yes, and she helped you breathe earlier. Apparently, you had a little too much to drink while listening to some music,” the agent said.
Marc felt the bottom fall out from inside of him, but then resisted the pull of despair. He gazed at the board and decided that this new path would eventually lead him out of this hell, just like he had turned that day and made it to the side of the ship. He thought of his mother, father, and sister back in America, and how much it would hurt them if he was gone. He made a pact with himself that he would survive.
“There is one other thing,” Marc said.
“What is that?” the agent asked.
“The board, it is from the banister of the ship that sank.”
The agent eyes squinted, and he looked down as he scratched the back of his head. “I will be sure to add that to the report.”
“Thank you,” Marc said.
“For what exactly?” the agent said.
“For taking the board away from me.”
“Oh, Marc, I assure you, we will take far more away from you than just this silly board,” the agent said. The guards then took Marc out of the room, and that was the last he would see of the railing from the ship.
Two days later, Marc was removed from the prison in Paris and moved south to Moulins. He was surprised to see Dr. Jackson and his son at roll call. It was good to see they were alive, but painful for him because he felt responsible for their arrest. He had not betrayed R, but his blindness to Marie had betrayed the Jacksons.
He now was a raven. He had become a bird between worlds that sees outside of time. He knew that it was due to Marie that they were betrayed and denounced. If only he had not trusted her, this would not have happened. If he had only let go of 1939 and seen who she was now, not in the past, not whom he’d met before. But letting go of the dream of loving her was harder than letting her go, as she walked out of the prison interrogation room. He would not be in this hell of watching Dr. Jackson and his son stand for prison roll call, had it not been for his greed.
Marc had tried to steal time. He’d tried to steal back the past that he lost. Now Dr. Jackson and Philip were like doves, innocent and pure, with white feathers. He had once been a dove, long ago, but then he fell into the sea, and his feathers were stained black as the night by the oil. Now, he was the raven. Marc felt neither life nor death, but only his own self-loathing. All the others in line were men, but he was a bird of death. Marc now stood at Moulins in a raven’s hell, watching doves pay for the raven’s sins.
Chapter 39
July, 1944
Moulins Prison, France
The cell door flew open as Marc scrambled with the other prisoners to stand at attention. The guard came screaming in a rage, pushing through each of the men, first grabbing one and then Marc. He slammed Marc against the wall outside the cell and slammed the door. Then he kicked him twice in the butt and once in the back of his knee, all along pushing him down the hallway with his rifle.
Marc began to tremble with fear. He had heard the screams, and seen men leave his cell, gone from roll call, never to return. He crossed the threshold of a room to his left, and received a blow to his head. His ears rang from the blow.
The guard then ripped his shirt off his back, and forced him to kneel on a bench. Marc suddenly felt the overwhelming need to urinate. He held back, and tried to focus and concentrate. His eyes looked up the wall and he could see the splatters. Just then, the first strike of the whip fell upon his back. Every muscle inside him seemed to contract in a spasm and then a second, third, fourth, and fifth blow befell him, slicing open his flesh. Before the thought of screaming had reached his mind, it had left his mouth.
The guard stopped as a second guard came in the room.
“You fool, he is the wrong one,” he yelled at the man with the whip.
“This is the one you asked for. Renee, the Parisian,” the guard protested.
“This is the American, you fool. Get him out of here and get me the other one,” the German guard yelled at the Frenchman.
Marc slammed down on the floor of the cell as they threw him back in. The guard then searched quickly through the other prisoners as the other German watched. None of the other prisoners was Renee from Paris. The other five were not the man they wanted. The door slammed. The darkness of the cell surrounded Marc. None of the other prisoners came near him.
Soon, across from his cell, Marc could hear the commotion of another search. Hollers came under the door as he heard the same shuffle with blows down the way. Then screams followed in the distant cell. But they did not stop. Marc thought, they must have found poor Renee. The guards did not inspect the cell again that night. At the morning roll call, Marc struggled to stand upright. He could also smell the pungent urine smell on his pants. He had no memory of urinating on himself.
Marc saw Dr. Jackson at roll call each day. He had been there longer than Marc. Once he also saw Philip, his son.
“I heard from another they are in Paris,” one prisoner would say.
“They have to be. Soon they will be here, in Vichy,” another prisoner would say.
“They landed, largest landing ever. There is nothing that can stop them,” yet another.
The rumors never stopped. Marc listened, but never spoke about them. He wondered if they were bait. He questioned the reality of any prisoner who was not whipped or handcuffed or beaten.
Dr. Jackson had a look of concern for Marc as he showed him his hands. They agreed never to speak if they should ever be arrested. Marc knew it was dangerous to talk of any Resistance work in the prisons. The only ears you could trust would be your own, and even they were a betrayal of screaming tortures night and day.
“That is a bad infection. How did you cut your hands?” Dr. Jackson asked him, as if Marc were no different from any other prisoner.
“Don’t recall. Sort of blocked it all out,” Marc said next.
Dr. Jackson cleaned Marc’s hands and drained the small abscess of pus. Then he treated the wounds with an iodine solution, and dressed Marc’s hands with bandages.
Marc looked for the words to say to him. He rehearsed a few variations in his mind. Then he would pull back and realize that by telling him that Marie betrayed them, it would only open up more questions, and cause him more pain. But Marc felt he needed to tell him, and that he had a right to know. The courage would then pass away and he’d slip back into silence.
“Keep the faith, my friend. It won’t be long,” Dr. Jackson said to him as he finished.
Marc thought as he left that he would tell him another time, but the opportunity never came about.
“What are you here for? You’re the American?” a new cellmate asked.
“Je ne sais pas, I don’t know,” Marc said shrugging his shoulders.
“Yes, you do. You must. What did they charge you with?”
Marc sat in silence in the dark, staring at the shadowy figure. He shook his head from side to side, slowly repeating, “I don’t know.”
“I’m here because of smuggling. They caught me, but before they did, I was able to get quite a few away,” he said proudly, looking at
Marc.
“Soon, we will be out of here. Just watch. They don’t have much more time. They feel it. You can see it. Come on, what did they get you for?” he asked Marc again.
The more he talked, the more Marc turned inside. Marc thought to himself, He is practically giving me a full confession. Why would he speak to a total stranger like this? Marc listened to the man’s voice, his quiet confidence. He lacked the fear of every other prisoner in the cell. The others remained silent. He had not asked any of the others why they’d been arrested. Only Marc.
“Enough, I will tell you,” Marc finally said, as he moved over near the man. Then he said to his face, just loud enough for everyone else in the cell to hear. “I was hoarding the real nickels, you know, the coins. They caught me. I had a whole can of them in my room under the bed.” Marc smirked at the lie, but knew that hoarding of coins was a serious charge. Sometimes they gave people three months hard labor. The other prisoners chuckled a bit. Marc could see that the man knew it was a lie, but he laughed all the same.
A few days later, the man was transferred to another cell, and no one spoke or asked Marc anything else about his charges.
Marc considered jumping into the river as they marched toward the train station, but it was not deep enough. He watched along the way for any possibility of escape. The entire prison was in a long march. Dr. Jackson had left two days before with around two thousand others. The German guards yelled constantly. Marc could not understand where they got the energy. Shouting so much had to be exhausting.
The train cars looked like they were carriages for animals. The tops were rounded, and the slats were covered with wire. So many men were crowded into the car, there was no room to sit. The door slammed shut, leaving the men in the sweltering heat. Each one had a loaf of bread and a piece of sausage, but there was no water, and just a single bucket in the middle of the car for waste.
