by C. T. Wells
The men around him pushed Josef towards the booth. Carrying his drink, Josef made his way towards Hofacker, one foot plodding after another. There were new flight systems that flew a plane automatically. Gyroscopes that spun and adjusted the controls hydraulically without the pilot’s input. Automatic pilots, they called them. And now someone else had set Josef’s course, and he was just along for the ride. His hands were not on the controls any more.
He made it to Hofacker. He could see his comrade had an ink bottle and some kind of needle–gun laid out in front of him. Somewhere someone started up a gramophone and a languid gypsy jazz filled the smoky air. It did not overcome the general din; the clink of glasses and the bursts of chatter throughout the parlour of the Hotel Meridien.
Brandt leant down towards Hofacker. ‘Do Shaka first. I want to see you get it right.’
Hofacker looked hurt, but he knew better than to disagree with Brandt. ‘Sit down opposite me. Don’t worry, I’m a jeweller. I’m used to working with things much smaller than your arm. This will be easy. And I haven’t touched a drop, so if anyone will be wobbly, it will be you, Shaka.’
Josef was unsure now. A tattoo. He had never thought of getting one. That was for navy men. Or prisoners. But Brandt’s eyes were on him. Some of the pilots gathered around, curious to see the process. The background noise sounded like the roar of a Daimler–Benz.
Josef drained the lager. The horizon was not level, but he managed to settle himself opposite Hofacker. One of the bar girls slid in beside him. She leant in close to watch the show. Josef was conscious of her hot breath and the mingled smell of perspiration and perfume. He looked at Hofacker’s tattoo machine. There was an electrical lead and coils, a brass tube that held a needle to inject ink into the skin. Ordinarily he would have been interested in the mechanism, but now he could not have cared at all how the machine worked or what Hofacker intended to do with it. He rolled up the sleeve of his left arm almost to the shoulder and watched through glazed eyes.
The needle plunged in and out of his flesh, but it was not unbearable. Hofacker worked carefully and Josef held his arm steady. The little apparatus injected dark ink into his skin with rapid stabs that formed the J of JG27.
‘One day, you might have me put your 109 on your arm. Or a girl. Or your kill tally. We could update it every time. I should start small though, so there is plenty of room, no?’
Josef shrugged.
‘Does it hurt?’ whispered the French girl.
He looked into her wide eyes. ‘I don’t mind the hurt.’
Hofacker paused for a moment, admiring his lettering. ‘When you’ve earned it, Josef, I could do an iron cross with oak leaves …’
Josef wondered if Hofacker would like to cover him completely, like a tribal warrior. Maybe he was really turning into Shaka. A savage, permanently marked.
‘What else do you want me to do, Josef? You have the geschwader on you now. What else? Make it personal. I am an artist, you know.’
‘An Iklwa.’
‘What?’
‘Iklwa.’ Josef thought of the stories from his childhood. ‘The fighting spear that Shaka Zulu invented. Shorter than a throwing spear, made for stabbing. A shaft, a long, leaf–shaped head.’
‘Aha! I know what you mean. Like this.’ Hofacker spread out a napkin on the table in the booth. He sketched the African spear with a pencil.
‘Ja, you have it.’
‘What about two of them, crossed like this? Under the JG27?’
Josef was detached from the process. He looked at his own arm like a spectator at a carnival. He shrugged. ‘Give me some spears. Make me Shaka.’
Hofacker started work on the next tattoo.
The needle bit into the flesh again. Josef remembered something else his father had told him. ‘Do you know why the Zulus called them iklwa?’
‘Tell me, Shaka.’ Hofacker did not lift his eyes from the work.
‘That was the sound it made when you pulled it out of the enemy’s body. Iklwa.’
Hofacker paused for a moment to grimace then returned to work on the tattoo, occasionally wiping up blood and ink with a handkerchief. Josef ignored the pain and focussed on the handkerchief. Josef saw a heart–shaped bloom of bright red blood in the fold of the cloth, discoloured in the centre by the blackish green of the ink. It was like one of those tests the psychoanalysts used.
The girl beside him put a soothing hand on the back of his neck.
Josef looked up. He thought the alcohol was really affecting him, because he saw a vision. At first he didn’t recognise her, because he was used to seeing her in farm clothes. Coming through the crowd in a wreath of blue smoke haze was Giselle.
‘It is finished.’ Hofacker admired his handiwork.
Josef paid him no heed. He stared at Giselle.
‘Who is she?’ The French girl spoke with jealousy dripping from her lips. It was confirmation, though. He was not hallucinating. Giselle was real. She was standing right there in front of him.
‘Leave us,’ Josef snapped to everyone in the booth.
Hofacker looked up, surprised. The bar girl scowled, her currency was devaluing faster than the franc. No-one moved.
‘Leave us!’ There was a dangerous edge to his voice and it got a result. Hofacker gathered up his tattoo machine and his ink. The girl made a show of squeezing past him before strutting away towards a group of German flyers at the bar.
Giselle sat down in the booth opposite him. She was flawless. She stood out from the other women, not needing the tawdry layers of blush and eye–shadow to enhance her face. But she was serious, her lips pressed into a bud. She looked straight at him.
‘What are you doing here?’ His head was clearing. ‘This is a dangerous place for you.’
‘It is also dangerous for you now.’ Her voice was low.
Josef shrugged. ‘It’s where I belong. It’s my tribe.’
‘No. Listen to me, Josef, you do not belong here. You are not even a German. You should not be part of this. You don’t even want to be.’
It felt like the interrogation in England. ‘I am Feldwebel Josef Schafer, Luftwaffe Pilot with Jagdgeschwader 27.’ He stabbed his right forefinger towards the puckered tattoo on his left arm.
‘Josef!’ She glanced around her, but they were alone. ‘You are in serious trouble. The Gestapo will find out you were with Martin at the château. The car. The uniform. They will find out. And they will come for you.’
Josef rubbed his temples. He did not want to hear this.
The tone in her voice changed. Soft. Sympathetic. ‘I know you must hate me, Josef, because of what happened to Melitta. You must believe me that I didn’t know. I am truly sorry. Martin is too. We’re sorry you got dragged into this. And we’re sorry we deceived you. We might not be perfect, Josef, but we are on the right side of this war.’
‘What is right, Giselle? Are you the one who decides that for all of us?’
‘No. That is for God to decide. But, Josef, hear me out. Whatever you think about this war, you are in more danger than ever. The Gestapo will come for you. One way or another you cannot be Feldwebel Josef Schafer for much longer. So let me offer you a way out.’ She leaned closer. ‘We will be hiding in the windmill until tomorrow night and then I will be leaving for England and Martin will be heading south. I cannot take you with me, but Martin can. Go with him to The Free Zone. He will take you to a safe place. Join the résistance if you have a heart, or at least escape the fate that awaits you here.’
Josef shook his head. ‘I am not a traitor.’
‘Josef, you must come with us. I’ve risked everything.’
Josef felt a pounding in his skull. There was still an image playing out in his mind. A British airman beneath his parachute being torn to shreds. The scene wouldn’t go away.
‘Josef? What is your decision?’
&n
bsp; He looked at the ink that had penetrated his skin. ‘It’s too late.’
Her hand shot out and slapped him across the face.
He sat there, stunned, as she stood up and strode away.
There were gasps from the group at the bar.
‘Did you say something dirty to her?’ called the girl.
Josef watched Giselle vanish through the crowd. He saw the door of the Hotel Meridien swing shut. ‘I’ll have another drink,’ he called to the bar girl.
‘What’ll it be, mon cheri?’
‘Whatever you’re having.’
XXX
Giselle felt tears slide over her cheekbones as she hurried through the dark streets. Why would Josef not listen? She could understand him rejecting her, but he would not even listen to reason. They would come for him sometime soon, and they wouldn’t mess around.
He was a drowning man who had just been thrown a life ring. But he had refused it out of pure stubborness. He had been drinking. He had even gotten a stupid, ugly tattoo. Maybe he was trying to prove he was one of them. She wiped the tears away. Would her words count for anything when he was sober. Had she done everything she could to save him?
She was replaying their conversation in her head when she heard a real voice, alarmingly close.
‘Hey, lady! Why are you leaving so soon?’
She spun around and saw another pilot clutching a bottle of wine.
‘I have to go!’ She strode towards the alley.
‘Let me come with you. My name is Wolfe. Let me walk you home.’ He was only metres away.
‘No, thank you.’ Giselle turned into the alley. The narrowness of the place blocked the moonlight. She was disoriented. She stepped into the shadows, feeling a surge of panic.
She glanced behind her. Nothing. From nowhere, a hand seized her arm and pushed her back into a brick wall, knocking the breath out of her. The drunken airman closed in.
She rammed her knee up into his groin. He groaned and dropped the bottle. It shattered on the cobbles as his hands clutched at her face and neck. ‘I’ll teach you, you French bitch. The party’s not over until Wolfe says so.’
She tried to scream, but he was pressing on her windpipe. She dug her nails into his face, but he pulled back, controlling her with a longer, more powerful reach.
A voice came out of the darkness. ‘You haven’t asked to meet my sister, Wolfe.’
‘Huh?’ Wolfe twisted to see who had spoken.
Giselle saw Martin swing the butt of the .45 into the bridge of the German’s nose. It was a vicious blow and it felled Wolfe immediately. He slumped and lay still, blood poured from his nose, darkening the cobblestones.
‘Come on,’ Martin said. ‘It’s time we got you home.’
***
They were only a few paces from the windmill when Edouard stirred, rising from the doorway with the MP–18 in his hands.
‘Relax, Edouard,’ Martin said. ‘It’s just us. You can go back to sleep.’
‘Where were you all this time?’
‘Giselle had a notion she could win over the German pilot.’
‘Josef? No, I always thought he was a Nazi at heart.’
Giselle pushed past him and found a place on the floor of the mill. She huddled in a blanket and said nothing.
She could tell Edouard was looking down at her.
‘It would be a lot more comfortable in a bed in the house,’ he said.
Maybe he was trying to be considerate. But maybe he had an ulterior motive. Either way, she chose to ignore him.
Martin spoke up. ‘I’ll keep watch until two o’clock and then you’re back on. How’s Terese?’
‘Sleeping.’
‘Good. Are you really willing to take her all the way south?’
‘What other hope does she have?’
‘None.’
‘Then I’ll do it.’
‘Good for you. When will you leave?’
‘In the morning.’
‘After Giselle’s pick–up, I’ll be a day or so behind you. We’ll meet at Montluçon within a few days.’
‘I wish Giselle could come too. I mean … we’re a team.’
‘She’ll be safe in England.’
Edouard’s silent disapproval hung in the air.
‘Don’t worry,’ continued Martin, ‘She’ll be back. Now get some rest because I’m going to kick you in the ribs at two o’clock and you might as well have some sleep beforehand.’
The early hours passed with a series of tedious watches and uncomfortable snatches of sleep. Giselle was on watch before dawn, longing for the sun to drive away the cold and fear. Terese stirred. She stood, moving stiffly, and tucked stray hairs behind her ears. She shuffled quietly to where Giselle sat in the doorway. This was the first morning Terese had woken without her husband.
Giselle offered her a smile of empathy, which was no doubt lost in the darkness.
‘I need to go down to the farm,’ whispered Terese.
‘I don’t think that’s a good idea.’
‘There is still a cow down there. It needs milking.’
Giselle frowned. She was right. The cow had to be milked twice a day. Giselle was torn. Martin had been so certain they needed to keep away from the main buildings. ‘The farm could be raided at any time. We are safer here.’
‘How would you like to be so full and ready to burst?’
‘No, Terese. Not yet, anyway. Talk with Martin when he wakes up. See what he thinks. We may not be able to do anything about the cow.’
Terese sighed. ‘But there is another problem. I must go to the lavatory. I will quickly walk down to the farm and return.’
Giselle nearly agreed, but Martin had been adamant. At least at the mill, they had the option of retreat into the woods should anyone arrive. She shook her head. ‘You have to stay near here. Just go outside if you have to. No–one is watching.’
Even in the semi–darkness, there was a discernible hardness in Terese’s face. Still she obeyed and walked out to the fieldstone wall before hitching up her skirt. Her glance back was full of accusation.
Giselle turned away, ashamed. Though she had not felt any affection for Anton, she knew the mission had cost Terese her husband. With her eyes averted, Giselle could sense what was happening. She heard the other woman gather her skirt, heard her knees cracking as she squatted. Heard her pissing on the cold ground. She could smell the vapourising urine. Giselle stared at the treeline. Poor Terese. This was indignity on the back of sorrow.
A moment later Terese came back to the mill. Her silence radiated hostility.
Giselle rubbed her eyes and looked out over the dim landscape. Less than a day until she left France. She ought to be jubilant. The mission had been a success. The aerial reconnaissance film was destroyed; a significant loss to Luftwaffe intelligence. But there was nothing tangible about the victory, only an interminably long night and a deep feeling of emptiness.
Josef had seemed so different in the Hotel Meridien. So hard. His eyes had been glazed with drink, and they weren’t much of a window to his soul. He had scorned her since the truth had been revealed about Melitta. That was understandable.
Keats’ poem had enticed her into believing the revelation of truth would be transforming, liberating. What kind of Apollo had she made? Shouldn’t the Sun God be magnificent? Not just another drunk Nazi without a care or conscience?
Lost in her thoughts, it was a few moments before she registered the sound of vehicles. The early morning air was utterly still, and she could pinpoint the source of the sound. Half a kilometre along the lane she could make out the dark forms of two vehicles moving towards the farm. No headlights. ‘Martin! Martin!’
Both Martin and Edouard jolted upright. Terese looked around wide–eyed. Thank heavens she wasn’t down in the milking shed or the lavatory
. There would be no escape from there.
Martin joined her at the doorway and they watched the vehicles slow as they approached the farm gate. ‘Two town cars. Gestapo.’
Edouard swore.
Martin took barely a second to consider their options. ‘Gather everything. Don’t leave a trace. When I say go, move to the back of the mill and hurry down the hill to the trees. If you keep low, you can’t be seen.’
Giselle nodded without taking her eyes off the dark vehicles only a few hundred metres away. They rolled slowly and quietly up the driveway towards the farmhouse. She was transfixed as the vehicles stopped. Men spilled from each car. They were shadows against shadows and it was hard to count them. Maybe four from each car. Some of them were carrying weapons.
Two men approached the farm house directly, while the others started to fan out, encircling the house and barn.
Martin’s voice was a whisper. ‘Are you ready?
Giselle nodded. Terese and Edouard both looked tense. Giselle scanned the mill. They couldn’t afford to leave a warm blanket behind.
‘Let’s go!’ hissed Martin. Together, the four of them stole out of the mill and slipped over the crest of the higher ground behind it so they wouldn’t appear as silhouettes to those below.
***
Inspekteur Eberhard Reile stood behind the Mercedes and watched his men storm the farmhouse with practised aggression. Willi Boelcke kicked in the door, his Mauser and a heavy flashlight thrust out in front of him. Two more agents with MP–40s followed him in, while another armed team of four encircled the house and barn.
Reile watched expectantly. It was less than half an hour since an informant had come forward. The market in Cherbourg had filled early with desperate vendors and haggling purchasers; men and women who risked breaking curfew to get the best deals of the day. One of them had recognised the corpse on the pole and informed the SS guards. An SS soldier had immediately telephoned Reile naming the corpse as Anton Joubert, the farmer, and providing an accurate location for the farm.
