Shadows over Stonewycke

by Michael Phillips

  “I do wish I could talk to Henri,” said Logan.

  “You realize that is impossible for now. He has too much at stake. Too many lives depend on him. Now, tell me about this Soustelle.”

  Logan briefly recounted what he had heard in von Graff’s office regarding the parents of the French soldier he had helped escape. Ever since leaving the general’s office earlier, he had been pondering how he might get to them before Soustelle. Now the perfect opportunity seemed to present itself.

  “Do you know where the Gregoires live?” he said to Paul.

  The young man nodded.

  “Can you go there and warn them? Their lives may depend on your speed.”

  “It would be quickest to telephone them,” he said.

  “Never trust the telephone, Paul. The government controls the system, and I’m certain that in the case of the Gregoires, their phone is under Gestapo scrutiny by now. But you’d best dig up some kind of disguise; a delivery boy ought to do.”

  “Oui, Monsieur!” he said eagerly. “Just like L’Escroc, eh?”

  Logan tensed. Was it possible Paul knew of L’Escroc’s identity? He glanced toward Lise and noted a hint of consternation in her face as well. No, he couldn’t know. It must have been but another example of how L’Escroc’s reputation had seized the fancy of many patriots throughout Paris. Quickly Logan dismissed it and returned to the problem at hand.

  “Be careful not to compromise yourself,” he cautioned. “The situation is very dangerous. Can you handle it?”

  “Oui, Monsieur!”

  “All right then . . . be off!” said Logan. “You can find out how to reach me through Lise. When we meet again we will set up some kind of regular contact point. Good luck, Paul!”

  The boy turned and sped off on his bicycle.

  When he was out of sight, Logan glanced at Lise, as if seeking some reassurance that this obviously untried youth could perform the task given him.

  “Yes, he is young,” she replied, correctly reading his look. “But we have little more than the young to rely on, with so many of our men in German prisons or dead. But Paul is not as naive as he may appear. He has helped us before. I am sure we can count on him.”

  “I hope you’re right,” said Logan. “It seems he is my only lifeline at present.”

  But neither Logan nor Lise could know that as he sped away from them, all the experience or savvy in the world could not get Paul to the Gregoire family ahead of the villainous Frenchman.

  44

  The Old Gentleman

  Even while Logan and Lise were talking in the cafe, Soustelle had made all the necessary arrangements.

  He and his soldiers were storming the Gregoire townhouse while Paul was still pedaling frantically across town. And by the time Paul knocked in vain on the ornate door, Soustelle was preparing to confront Monsieur Gregoire in an interrogation chamber of a small building adjacent to the S.S. headquarters where the S.D. often performed their dirty work.

  Except for the actual arrest, Soustelle had decided to handle the entire matter himself. He would notify von Graff upon its successful conclusion. Thus he had ordered the S.D. agents to drag the prisoner into the chamber, then dismissed them. He was now alone with the wealthy Frenchman, who had made a fortune manufacturing perfume.

  Gregoire was about seventy, with white hair and a clean-shaven face of nearly transparent skin, though it was deeply creased with wrinkles. Because of a touch of arthritis in his vertebrae, his neck jutted forward slightly, and a mild case of Parkinson’s caused his head to tremble constantly on its seemingly precarious perch. The effect would have been pitiful had it not been for his proud, lively eyes and firm, determined chin. He was a man who had known little trouble in his life, having inherited an already successful business from his father. He had enjoyed a genteel existence with his wife and family, reputed to be a gentleman however tenacious he might be in the marketplace. But with the occupation of the city and the imprisonment of his only son, Gregoire had quickly learned the harsh realities of life. They were soon to become much harsher.

  Soustelle strutted back and forth in front of the aged Frenchman as he sat with all the decorum he could muster under the circumstances.

  “We know you are connected with the underground,” said Soustelle, pausing to focus his cold gaze at his prisoner.

  “That is not true!” exclaimed the proud Gregoire.

  Soustelle’s fleshy hand suddenly shot out, striking the older man’s pale face with a savage blow. Gregoire was knocked momentarily off his seat, but caught his balance before falling to the floor, and doggedly resumed his place.

  “Tell me about your son,” demanded Soustelle.

  “I only did what any father would do. You are a Frenchman; you should understand.”

  Soustelle spat on Gregoire’s expensive Italian shoes.

  “I understand my duty! Now tell me—who helped him escape?”

  “I do not know—it was all arranged through the post.”

  Soustelle delivered another punishing blow, which stung the old man’s ear, drawing blood.

  “Lies!” snapped the Nazi henchman. “Give me names!”

  “I know none to give.”

  “What about L’Escroc?”

  Gregoire said nothing.

  “You will talk!” said Soustelle with icy menace.

  He strolled in a casual, off-hand manner to a table where his hand laid hold of a policeman’s nightstick. Tapping it meaningfully in his hand, he strutted before the old man several times, a gleam of profound relish in his eyes, and, oddly enough, no licorice churning in his mouth.

  “You will give me names,” he said.

  Still Gregoire remained silent.

  Incensed by the man’s effrontery not to be intimidated, Soustelle set to work with his club. The gentle, aged face—bloodied and purple from the Frenchman’s blows—was unrecognizable within the span of but a few moments. When the old man fell to the floor, Soustelle aimed several more blows at his kidneys. But by now, even if Gregoire had known anything, he was more determined than ever not to utter a word to this evil man some would dare call his countryman.

  “So be it!” spat Soustelle. “There are other methods to loosen stubborn tongues!”

  Gregoire rolled over and looked up with terror at his captor.

  “Yes, Gregoire,” laughed Soustelle. “Your wife is in the next room. Perhaps the sound of her cries will make you talk, eh?”

  “Please, no!” begged Gregoire with a pathetic whimper, all his determination to resist suddenly swallowed by panic. “Not my wife . . . she is not well.”

  “Then give me names! Tell me who is this L’Escroc!”

  “I tell you I know nothing. Do you not think I would talk—especially now—if only I could?”

  “Have it your way then.”

  Soustelle stalked from the room, that sinister gleam still in his eyes.

  Gregoire crawled from the cold hard floor toward the door through which Soustelle had just exited.

  He struggled to rise but could only get to his knees. In vain he tried the handle, but the door was locked.

  Suddenly from the other side he heard a wretched scream that he knew at once to be his wife’s.

  “No! Dear God . . . !” he wailed, pounding a feeble fist on the door. “No . . . !”

  Still the screaming went on, all but drowning out the dull thuds from Soustelle’s blows.

  The last sound he heard, before falling back onto the floor in blessed unconsciousness, was a horrifying laugh from Soustelle, mingled with an hysterical shriek from his dear wife.

  ———

  Logan buried his face in his hands. He could not believe Lise’s words.

  “They are dead, Michel . . .”

  Despite the shakiness of his relationships with Lise and La Librairie, which now had to be re-forged, Logan had begun to think things would smooth out. He had already managed to forget the reality of disaster. And how much worse that disaster should strike
others because of his momentary blunder. L’Escroc, indeed!

  “ . . . dead, Michel. Do you hear me?”

  Paul had not succeeded in his mission. Logan’s warning, Paul’s attempt to warn them—everything had come too late. And Logan knew he was to blame.

  He remembered when the Gregoires’ son, now safely out of France and fighting at de Gaulle’s side for Free France, had described his parents. “They are like children in wrinkled skins . . . incredibly innocent,” he had said. “They are not stupid or naive! Oh no!” He had chuckled softly at the notion of his father being naive. “But they have somehow managed not to be corrupted by this cruel world of ours.”

  Now the picture of those dear old souls at the mercy of Soustelle and the Gestapo rose up, a stinging self-recrimination before Logan’s mind. Had they been sacrificed so that his own skin might be saved? Even if such had not been his conscious intent, his over-confidence had made him careless, numbed him to realities.

  “Michel,” Lise’s voice broke into his thoughts, “you must not blame yourself.”

  “Why should I not?” he asked bitterly.

  “Because this is war. When you’re involved in war, blame and guilt only lead to insanity. You do what you must do. You survive. If you manage to help some people one day, you cannot carry the burdens of an evil world on your shoulders the next.”

  Logan lifted his head so that his eyes met hers. “Then whose fault is it, Lise?” he asked. “When do people have to stop and take responsibility for their actions, even in a war?”

  “You tried to save them the moment you could.”

  “That sounds like rather a trusting comment to make. What if it was all a ploy on my part to make my charade that much more believable, while all the time I was in league with Soustelle?”

  Lise smiled. “I suppose that is a possibility. And a chance I must take. But I hope I read your reaction to this news with more insight into human nature than that.”

  “Nevertheless, I should have done more.”

  “If you had done more—sacrifice yourself, perhaps—you might only have brought many more others into danger.”

  “So the lives of two old persons is a small price to pay for the safety of La Librairie, is that it?”

  His voice was harsh, meant to bite, though not directed at Lise personally.

  “I did not mean that,” she replied, hurt. “Surely you know me better than that by now, whatever side you are on.”

  His tone softened as he reached out and took her hand.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. He wanted to weep, but shedding tears was one ruse he had never practiced much.

  “You must forget all this,” she said, trying to assume a businesslike attitude as she slipped her hand from his.

  “For a moment, Lise, I thought we could go back to the way it was.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “We were friends before,” he replied. “There was trust. We could talk. In a world of lies and cover-ups and darkness, I thought we were able to understand each other . . . trust each other.”

  He paused, rubbing his hands across his face.

  “I need that, Lise,” he said. “I don’t know if I can dangle out there alone anymore. Though I suppose in this kind of work, trust, attachments, caring—they are the kiss of death. Sometimes I don’t know where Michel Tanant leaves off and Logan Macintyre begins.”

  “Don’t say that name to me!”

  “Can’t you just for a minute forget what we are?”

  “It’s dangerous to forget.”

  “No, I think it’s just easier not to forget.” Logan sighed. “Lise, I have caused two innocent people to die. How can I ever forget that? That is not something the fictitious Michel Tanant did, which can be wiped out of memory like an imaginary name. I did it, do you understand? Me—Logan Macintyre! And I will never forget. When this war is long over, I will still have to deal with that fact. I will have to look into my child’s eyes and remember all that happened here in France.”

  “Is that why you never carry a weapon and so carefully avoid violence?”

  “Ha! I fear even those standards will soon be gone. Like I said, where do Michel and Logan start to be different?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Today Soustelle was following me. I grabbed him and threw him up against a brick wall. I attacked him! I probably would never have been able to break his neck as I threatened. Good acting has always gotten me by—and it’ll probably be my demise, too. But what if before this is over I find myself in that same situation with a rifle in my hand? What if I have to kill?”

  “I wish I could help you in some way, Logan.” She spoke his real name for the first time, softly, poignantly, perhaps not even aware that that alone could be enough to help sustain him for a while.

  “Thank you,” was his only reply.

  In her heart Lise knew that he understood. It was a great sacrifice for her to break her code by imprinting a comrade’s true name into her mind with her voice.

  “I wish I could help you smile again, too,” she added. “But it has always been your job to bring smiles and laughter. I’m afraid I fail miserably in that area.”

  “Someday,” said Logan, “the war will be over and we will all be able to smile and be happy again.”

  “Perhaps there will be happiness for others,” said Lise. “But for those who survive this dark life of Nazi occupation which France has plunged itself into by its own stupidity . . . I don’t know. I think we will be too changed to be happy anymore.”

  Logan was silent. He wished he could refute her morbid statement. But he knew he couldn’t. He had said just the same thing when he had spoken of his daughter. It was a fact that lately seemed constantly haunting him. Jean Pierre had spoken of changing in a positive way. But Logan was not sure it could be so. His own depressed state over the Gregoire deaths had blinded him to the spiritual realities operating within him, and to the beauties of change. For the moment he only knew that if ever he was so lucky as to see his wife and daughter again, he would be a far different person from the one they had known before.

  From his present vantage point, he could not see how such an altered Logan Macintyre would be someone they would even know . . . or love. But in one thing he was correct—he would never be the same Logan Macintyre again.

  45

  Nathaniel

  Allison felt happier than she had for months.

  Nathaniel was home on leave after more than a year away. Actually he wasn’t really home, for time did not allow for him to get all the way north to Stonewycke. But since Allison was in London, that was almost as good. He had been able to arrange a flight for Joanna to join them there, so it was going to be as near a reunion as the war-torn family had had in quite a long time.

  Allison and Nathaniel had driven out to the airport in an army car to meet Joanna’s plane, only to receive the news that it was an hour behind schedule. Allison didn’t mind the delay, for it gave them time together as brother and sister they had seldom had, even prior to the war.

  “It’s funny,” Allison said as they found seats on the wooden benches in the busy airport. “For so long you were always my baby brother. But now it seems we have caught up to each other.”

  “Ye mean I’ve finally caught up to you!” said the redheaded Nathaniel, his freckled face breaking into an unabandoned grin that was so much like his father’s.

  “I don’t know,” said Allison thoughtfully. “I may have been older, but in so many ways you were always far and away ahead of me. You always knew who you were and what was most important in life. I seem to still be struggling with the things you mastered years ago.”

  “But I can already tell, Ali,” Nat replied, “that ye’ve got yer feet back on the solid foundation, as Grandma nae doobt would say.”

  Allison had to smile. Nat and Alec were the only members of the family to cling to the heavy Scots burr, and it was delightful to hear once again after Allison’s long exposure to the south
ern accents.

  “I hope you’re right, Nat,” she replied. “And I think I am close to God again, closer than ever before. Being alone, and having things go against me for a while, really forced me to examine parts of my life that I’d never looked at before. I suppose Logan and I approached our marriage like we did being Christians—a one-time decision that we thought would carry us through. I guess I’m finding out—in both areas—that there’s a deeper commitment needed, something strong and enduring enough to last for years . . . forever. Being alone, and on my own, has opened my eyes to some of these things, especially to how shallow I always was. It’s hardly any wonder Logan finally got tired of me.”

  “Ah, come on, Ali, give yersel’ a break! Ye canna hae been all that muckle bad!”

  “Maybe you didn’t know me very well, Nat. No one did. Because I didn’t even know myself.”

  “Weel, I’m right glad for ye noo, anyway.”

  “Do you remember Sarah Bramford?”

  “Ay . . . a friend o’ yers frae home?”

  “Yes. She and I’ve been attending church together. It has been so good for me to have someone to talk to. She’s grown a lot over the years, too. Yet there are still times of struggle when I really doubt my ability to make the kind of commitment to God I want to. And there are times when I wonder if it’s not come too late. If only I had seen some of these things years ago, my marriage might have been spared.”

  “But ye canna give up hope, ye ken.”

  “All the hope in the world will be of little use if I never see Logan again.”

  “The Bible says that hope doesna disappoint.”

  Allison sighed. “You’re right. But it’s so discouraging to realize that in so many ways I drove Logan away without realizing what I was doing, all the time blaming him. Oh, Nat, I knew so little about what marriage was really meant to be, that love is serving, not receiving.”

  “Ye’ll hae yer chance to make it right again.”

  “Oh, I hope so!”

  “How long has it been?”