The last time there was a general roundup, their contacts had warned them in time and they were able to flee to the woods and hide out for a few days. But the next time?
Karl and Sofia had both heard the plane flying low over the city the night before. They knew it was one of theirs because they heard the Germans shooting at it. It must have been dropping supplies—tools, explosives, medicine—anything that supported the Resistance.
And now les poulets were scouring the city, looking for any kind of contraband, including books.
Madame Hermine, the fruit seller, scowled at Karl as he pedaled by, perhaps because Sofia always picked over her perfectly stacked pyramids of apples and plums in order to find the slightly bruised fruit so they could knock a few centimes off the price on the blackboard.
It was the darkest part of the war for them. In what seemed like a few short months, the Nazis had overrun half of Europe, from the coast of Brittany to the outskirts of Stalingrad. But there were pockets of resistance, especially in the broad swath of France run by a traitorous marshal who had no particular objection to working hand-in-hand with the Nazis.
As he reached the edge of the city, two German soldiers ordered him to stop. The dark-haired one lazily pointed his rifle at Karl’s gut while the blond-haired one held out his hand like a busy ticket taker at the local cinema.
“Vos papiers,” said the blond one in heavily accented French.
Karl handed over his identity papers.
The blond one flipped through the pages, turned to his comrade and said, in Swabian German dialect, “They could be handing me toilet paper and I wouldn’t know the difference.”
Karl had to press his lips tightly together to keep from laughing. He couldn’t let on that he understood German because it would raise too many questions. The soldier returned his identity papers without even looking at him closely, and waved him on.
Karl breathed more freely as he pedaled away from the city, which was nestled in the mountains of central France, toward the narrow lanes in the shadow of the five thousand–foot high Puy de Dôme. Even his neck muscles seemed to relax as he left the rigid cityscape behind for the glorious chaos of a forest in the Auvergne. The branches echoed with the sounds of birds beneath an azure sky just like in a poem—that is, if anyone was still writing poetry.
Sofia sometimes complained bitterly that they had been running for years, although they had never had to wear the hateful yellow stars because they left Germany as soon as Hitler came to power. It had taken them six years to learn how to speak French like natives.
But when the war broke out, the gendarmes rounded up all the undesirables and sent Karl to a French prison camp for being a German national. Fortunately, it didn’t take long for the French authorities to realize that this Aryan-looking man with the hatchet nose was actually a German Jew—hardly the same thing as being a German—with a degree in French literature from the Sorbonne, and they released him on the condition that he join the French army as an interpreter. He enlisted on the spot, but when the French army was defeated in six weeks, he was captured and sent to a German prison camp for being a French national—and it was a good thing they believed he was French.
But those were the early days of the war, when the Germans were still trying to win over the people of the French colonies by releasing all the Algerian and Moroccan prisoners of war, claiming that Germany’s war with France did not involve them. So Karl and a few of his comrades wrapped white bath towels around their heads, smeared their faces and hands with axle grease, and trooped out of the prison with the other Moroccans, right under the guards’ noses because, he supposed, one black face looked just like another to the Master Race.
The memory of that moment brought a smile to his lips as he approached the turnoff to Madame Decroux’s farmhouse. It was almost too absurd to be believed, and of course, it would never happen like that today, not with—
His heart froze.
A Nazi staff car was parked in front of the farmhouse, and a high-level officer in a crisp black uniform was questioning Madame Decroux. The other man, the one in the dusty gray overcoat, must have been the officer’s driver.
Karl thought of turning back, but it was too late now. They had seen him, and he had no choice but to keep pedaling toward them and hope that the unwritten story of the next few minutes didn’t end in a puddle of red ink.
The kommandant studied Karl as his skinny tires crunched on the gravel. Karl swallowed and tried to breathe normally, but what man has ever been able to breathe normally while being closely watched by a hawk-eyed fascist with a Luger harnessed to his waist?
Karl’s cover story was that he was the math tutor for Madame Decroux’s children. He even had a set of blue-lined notebooks to support this, their yellowing pages filled with second-grade arithmetic problems. But when the kommandant asked for Karl’s papers, he studied the birth date and family information with great interest.
“What faith are you?” said the kommandant.
“Catholic, of course.” It said so right on his identity papers.
“Not one of those Protestant Huguenots of the region?”
“We are lifelong Catholics, Herr Kommandant.”
“And your father is Jacques Duffau, the bootmaker on the Rue La Bruyère?”
“Yes.”
“Wonderful. I could use a new set of boots,” said the kommandant, whose boots were a little scuffed, but otherwise appeared to be in perfectly good condition. “Let’s go pay him a visit.”
Karl’s knees turned to jelly. His new identity had been created using the names and dates on the birth certificate of a child who had died at the age of one month more than twenty-five years ago. He had no idea if his surrogate father was still alive, and if so, if the bootmaker’s shop was still at the same address, or if he could even find the address easily, and, if he somehow managed to clear the first three hurdles, if the man who was supposed to be his father would figure out what was going on quickly enough and play along, or denounce him on the spot.
“Right now?” said Karl.
“That’s not a problem, is it?”
“No, no, of course not.”
“We don’t really have time, Herr Kommandant,” said the driver. Karl’s heart leapt at the slim chance that his voyage into the unknown might be called off.
“Certainly we have time.”
“But the colonel wanted me to have the car back by five so I could wash it in time for tonight’s gala. It’s a complete disgrace.” The driver’s overcoat and goggles were coated with dust from the provincial roads, and his boots were spattered with mud. The car was in roughly the same condition.
“That can wait,” said the kommandant.
“But the orders are—”
“I’m giving the orders right now, Corporal.”
“Yes, my Kommandant. But that address, Rue La Bruyère, it’s all the way on the other side of the city—”
They went back and forth like this for several minutes until finally the kommandant prevailed. He ordered Karl to get into the front seat next to the driver. Karl could barely feel his legs as he climbed aboard thinking, This is it. I made it this far. Now we’re going to be separated forever. Goodbye, Sofia. Tell our child I love him.
“Smell that?” said the kommandant, patting the seats. “That’s good German leather.”
“Is that what the smell is?” Karl murmured.
“Let’s see if your French leather is as good.”
But when the driver turned the key, the engine made a noise like a coffee grinder, and refused to turn over.
Karl couldn’t help hoping that by some miracle the car wasn’t going to start. But what were the odds of that? How many times had he wished for the opposite, gently coaxing a reluctant motor to life, and been rewarded for his efforts? A well-maintained car almost always started if the driver knew what he was doing.
The driver gave it more gas, but the engine kept grinding until it sounded like a wire brush on a washbo
ard. Then he switched off the ignition disgustedly, got out of the car and opened the hood. A few minutes passed while a slow trickle of sweat pooled in the small of Karl’s back, which turned cold before the driver gave up and admitted that he couldn’t fix the problem.
“We’ll have to send for a mechanic.”
Karl got out of the car, his undershirt damp with perspiration, calculating how long it would take them to get a mechanic out to this isolated farmhouse, diagnose the problem, and possibly fix it. And he allowed himself to hope that by then it would be too late in the day for the kommandant to indulge in his taste for a fine pair of handmade leather boots.
The kommandant barked an order, and the driver popped open the staff car’s enormous trunk, revealing a stripped-down motorcycle. The Nazis were nothing if not well prepared. The kommandant had Karl help the driver lift the motorcycle out of the trunk and set it on the gravel. Karl agreed, wondering why he was helping them to speed his own demise. But they couldn’t possibly expect to fit three people on this, could they?
The driver parked his rear end on the motorcycle’s black leather seat, started up the engine with a diesel-fueled roar, and smiled for the first time since Karl had laid eyes on him.
“Some other time then,” the kommandant promised.
“Yes. Some other time.” Karl nodded obligingly.
The kommandant climbed on the back of the motorcycle and the driver gunned the motor. The motorcycle lurched forward, turned sharply to follow the curved drive, then shot off down the road, spraying dust and gravel behind them.
“Mon Dieu, that was close,” said Madame Decroux.
“What on earth were they doing here?”
“They were looking for me,” said a voice from behind.
Karl turned. A man stood in the doorway to the barn wearing a pair of coveralls that were streaked with dirt and dust, and Karl knew right away that he was staring at the pilot from the downed airplane just as surely as the Nazis would have known it.
“Captain Isnard,” said the pilot, introducing himself.
“Georges Duffau.” They both knew his name was false, and as they shook hands, Karl saw the partially stripped copper wires in Captain Isnard’s other hand.
“Let’s not stand here in plain sight, shall we?” said the captain.
They went into the farmhouse and sat down to a cup of weak tea and day-old bread with a thin layer of jam. Captain Isnard explained that he had been hiding in the hayloft and had seen everything through a crack in the siding. Even from that vantage point, he could tell that something wasn’t right, so he crept down the old ladder and crawled nearly twenty-five feet across open terrain, slid under the staff car and ripped out a couple of wires, then crawled back to the barn. The pilot had risked his life for the sake of a complete stranger.
“They would have shot you on the spot if they’d caught you,” said Karl.
The pilot shrugged. “You’d have done the same for me, right?”
For a moment Karl was speechless, overcome by emotions he hadn’t felt in months as a surge of warmth filled his chest—a resurgence of faith in his fellow man, resistance, and survival, and a renewed sense that this world might still be worth fighting for.
Eventually he did his duty and delivered the papers, and climbed back on the bicycle.
“Vive la France!” his comrades called out. Karl returned their salute, and a minute later he was on his way, pedaling back to the city, perhaps never to see the brave pilot again.
The moist forest floor was teeming with renewed life, the birds were gliding toward the horizon on an invisible updraft, and even the moss growing on the crumbling walls around the sad-looking graveyard hinted that as long as there is life, all is not lost.
But when he got back to the street where they had once found sanctuary, two columns of Vichy police were rousting Jews from the basements and garrets with the help of Madame Hermine, the fruit peddler. A small group of detainees huddled together, their faces pale and drawn in the late afternoon sun. Sofia was among them.
The landlady cursed Madame Hermine and the others for collaborating with the oppressors. “Vous-êtes pire que les Boches!” *
His first thoughts were for the future of his family. Oddly enough, his second thoughts were for the books they had left behind. Who would read them when they were gone?
Sofia was looking at him, trying to communicate something with her eyes. Did she expect him to abandon her and keep fighting for the cause of freedom, or stay by her side for the good of their child? There was no time to think. He had to act now.
In the end, Karl joined his young wife because he had faith that wherever they were going, at least they would be together.
Copyright © 2012 Kenneth Wishnia
* You’re worse than the Germans. Author’s Note: This story is dedicated to the memory of Konrad Bieber, and to all those who died so that we might live. Each day is a struggle to be worthy of their sacrifice.
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The Lineup
BY LINE ABSENT
| 187 words
JOHN C. BOLAND’S pseudonymous novel Long Pig, by James L. Ross, was nominated for a Shamus Award for best P.I. novel in the paperback original category.
SHELLEY COSTA is the author of You Cannoli Die Once, the first book in a new cozy mystery series, published by Simon and Schuster Pocket Books.
JOHN H. DIRCKX is the author of many stories published by AHMM featuring Detective Sergeant Cyrus Auburn.
LOREN D. ESTLEMAN’S latest books are The Perils of Sherlock Holmes (Tyrus Books), a collection of stories and essays, and Burning Midnight, featuring Detroit P.I. Amos Walker (Forge).
2012 Shamus Nominee STEVEN GORE is the author of the new thriller Power Blind (HaperCollins).
Booked & Printed columnist ROBERT C. HAHN also reviews mysteries for Publishers Weekly and the New York Post.
I. J. PARKER’S novels set in medieval Japan are now available in electronic format through Amazon, including The Hollow Reed trilogy and Akitada and the Way of Justice, a collection of stories that have previously appeared in AHMM, including the Shamus Award winner “Akitada’s First Case.”
BOB TIPPEE is the editor of Oil & Gas Journal. His last story for AHMM was “Delicate Balance” (Nov. 1995).
KENNETH WISHNIA is the author of The Fifth Servant (William Morrow), which was an Indie Notable selection. PM Press is reissuing the first two novels of his Filomena Buscarsela mystery series.
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MYSTERIOUS PHOTOGRAPH
BY LINE ABSENT
| 150 words
Copyright © 2012 sashagala / Shutterstock.com
New Wine in Old Bottles
We will give a prize of $25 to the person who invents the best mystery story (in 250 words or less, and be sure to include a crime) based on the above photograph. The story will be printed in a future issue. Reply to AHMM, Dell Magazines, 267 Broadway, New York, New York 10007-2352. Please label your entry “November Contest,” and be sure your name and address are written on the story you submit. If you would like your story returned, please include an SASE.
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BOOKED & PRINTED
ROBERT C. HAHN | 1151 words
A trip to the Mediterranean promises romance, sunny islands, good food and drink—and in this month’s selections, murder. The many cultures that rim the wine-dark sea lend color and spice to investigations on the Greek island of Tinos, in southern Italy, and in Gibraltar and Tangier.
Jeffrey Siger’s Target: Tinos (Poisoned Pen, $24.95) is the fourth to feature Chief Inspector Andreas Kaldis, now head of Greece’s special crimes division. Kaldis is that rare creature, an incorruptible policeman in a very corrupt force, one who is willing to bend or break rules to get results and can wield force or reason with equal panache. Political minefields are an occupational hazard in Greece and Kaldis is adept at avoiding them, despite the best efforts of others to drop him into their center.
Tinos is a small island, just three times the size
of Manhattan, with a resident population of about nine thousand. But it is the home of the famous Church of Panagia Evangelistria church, site of the miraculous icon of Virgin Mary, and the destination of many pilgrimages over the centuries.
The story begins with the execution-style murder of two men, who are found chained together and burned in their vehicle. A nearby note proclaiming “Revenge or Death” has disturbing echoes of Greece’s national motto: “Freedom or Death.” When the victims are identified and discovered to be tsigani (gypsies), Kaldis comes under political pressure to call it a clan-motivated killing and presume the killers have left the country.
With his wedding to the beautiful Lila Vardi, the pride of one of Greece’s oldest and wealthiest families, less than a week away, Kaldis is told to close the case before the wedding. With the help of Tassos Stamatos, chief homicide inspector for the Cyclades, Kaldis locates the brother of the victims in Athens, who tells them a strange tale about their clan being offered money to move to Tinos but not to cause any trouble there. Then a tense meeting with another gang leader brings word of a secret plot to rob the Panagia Evangelistria.
When Kaldis and his crew eventually get to Tinos, things heat up even more as they talk to islanders and learn about a mysterious man known as the “Shepherd” who pays very good money to incomers from the mainland so long as they have a job and stay out of trouble. But those who talk end up dead or disappeared.
Siger has cooked up a plot where not only the identity of the bad guys but also their ultimate aim remain in doubt until the end. Siger makes the most of Greek history and customs as well as the island’s rustic geography and unusual inhabitants. But tying all the elements together is the very intriguing investigator, Andreas Kaldis.
Alfred Hitchcock Mystery Magazine Page 14
