The Foreigner

by P. G. Glynn

  Whatever Marie’s opinion of his behaviour, Otto hoped and prayed they had escaped from Czechoslovakia to somewhere safe. Their safety was paramount and he pictured them in Wales. Not that Monmouthshire could guarantee safety, now that Britain was at war with Germany. It was a bitter pill to swallow that Otto was, in effect, fighting his wife and son whether they were in Britain or still in Herrlichbach. What kind of a man would do as he had done? Not the kind Marie could ever respect or continue to love.

  But he was being so defeatist! Why could he not revert to his former optimism? Otto supposed that he could never again be the man he had been. He had lost that man completely. The Blitzkrieg had claimed him as surely as it had now claimed Norway, Holland, Belgium, France, Yugoslavia, Greece and Crete. He, too, was Hitler’s victim though he wore a Nazi’s uniform.

  So had Ludwig won? On the face of things he had, but Otto suspected he was questioning himself too soon. Perhaps such a question was best asked on Otto’s deathbed, when his time on earth was finally done.

  More than once in Stalingrad, after Hitler launched his Operation Barbarossa, resulting in the Russians entering the war, Otto had believed his time to be up. A primary aim of the attack having been to kill off Bolshevism, it had almost killed him. How he had endured that bloodbath and freezing cold and lived to tell the tale he would never know, but his survival after Field Marshal Paulus surrendered to the Soviets was due in part to finding excrement from which he could pick undigested corn and mullet. Yes, he had been reduced to this and had still lived. So did his ongoing existence point to God having some future plan for him? Otto believed that it did and had recently been making plans of his own.

  These could not have been made without Fabienne. She was a girl like no other and the wonder was that she loved him enough to take the risks she was taking. Back in the old days, when he was young and arrogant, Otto had taken it for granted that women would love him and do things for him. Now he regarded it as little short of a miracle that such a sensuous beauty as Fabienne should see him as someone worth saving from the plight he found himself in. She had somehow seen through his hated uniform and self-loathing to the man that he might have been. Consequently, he was about to become a Frenchman!

  Here in occupied France, which was policed by Germans in collaboration with the mostly unwilling French, Fabienne was willing to risk terrible reprisals both for herself and her family by helping him ostensibly change nationality. She was already at risk, she told him, both from the Gestapo/Sicherheitsdienst and from the milice, so what difference did another risk make? Miliciens - members of the para-military force formed by the French aristocrat Darnand after the French army’s defeat in 1940 – were known to be worse even than the Gestapo in their treatment of resistants.

  Fabienne was a resistant and part of the Special Operations Executive based in Baker Street, London. Her courage was so much greater than his that Otto felt humbled by it. And her uncle – code name Patrice – had been a ‘pianist’ with the Resistance until he was caught transmitting messages. After he was removed from his home and tortured to death his wife and children were also tortured by the miliciens. Because of such requitals it was becoming more and more of a problem to find safe houses from which wireless-operators could transmit and now, with the advent of radio-goniometric vans that searched for aerials and listened for evidence of transmissions taking place, things were still riskier.

  The Abwehr’s Service III f Fahndung Funk tried hard to pass these vans off to the public as ordinary commercial vehicles, removing the rear seats from Ford 21s to make room for the electronic detection equipment, and their precautions had helped them catch countless clandestine radio operators in the act of contacting England. Fabienne, however, had become expert in identifying such converted Fords and warning pianists if practicable. She did so, she told Otto, to save others from her uncle’s fate. He marvelled at how little she seemed to value her skin … marvelling now at its creamy silkiness.

  “What time is it?” she asked, stirring within his arms and wrapping her sinuous limbs round him as if there had been no interruption in their lovemaking. “I never intended sleeping!”

  “You had no choice,” he told her, playfully running his tongue over each of her nipples in turn and slipping one finger into the moist hollow between her legs, where it gently probed her lower lips before thrusting up between them. “Sleep was necessary after such a delectable hors d’oeuvre … and before the main course.”

  “You’re always hungry,” she sighed, smiling in the darkness as his finger found its goal. “You’re the hungriest man I’ve ever known.”

  “Only for you, ma petite! You’ve given me back the virility I thought I had lost. That puts me deeply in your debt. You almost make me wish that the war would last forever so that we two could stay together.”

  “That’s also almost my wish,” she told him, languorously stroking his love-muscle.

  “Almost?”

  As he then positioned his head between her legs, directing his tongue to the lips he loved to lick and caress, she said: “Despite your war-time hardships there’s still some arrogance left in you, mon chou. You didn’t expect me to question your ‘almost’, yet you questioned mine. We have the present but no future, you and I.”

  He halted his activities to ask her: “Is that because I’m so much older than you are?”

  “No. I am not conscious of any difference in our ages. If anything I feel as if I am the older one. I know I’m the wiser of us!” Fabienne surrendered again as with a chuckle he reverted to his pleasuring between her thighs. “We have no future, Gilbert, because you’re still so in love with your wife.”

  She had called him by his new name and once they had both climaxed again there could be no more delaying. It was past midnight and they had already dallied longer than they should have. Unless they left immediately they would risk being late for their appointment and could increase the dangers they faced on their way. What they were doing was dangerous enough, without running risks they need not run. After a last, fierce kiss they emerged from beneath Fabienne’s feather quilt and started dressing. He had arrived in his uniform but now discarded it in favour of garments his sweetheart had found for him. The black shirt belonging to her brother fitted perfectly, as did the baggy brown trousers and rough-haired jacket that had been her uncle’s. Otto felt a little odd in such attire after wearing a uniform for so long, but his feeling quickly passed as Fabienne tied a striped kerchief round his neck and pulled a black beret over his balding head. After adding a false moustache for good measure she told him to look at himself in the long mirror.

  He saw a stranger standing there. Still gaunt from his experiences in Russia, when near-starvation had taken him beyond eating excrement and forced him to eat the foot of a dead friend, he had hollows beneath his cheekbones and a concave chest, the effects of which somehow contributed – along with the moustache and beret – to his now looking so French.

  “So,” he said with relish, “it’s goodbye to the enemy and hello, at last, to the ally!”

  “You certainly look the part,” agreed Fabienne, who had donned a black dress and was studying him as if to commit his image indelibly to memory. “Here, don’t forget this!”

  She handed him his French Identity Card bearing a photograph, a thumbprint and a fifteen-franc stamp along with a description of Gilbert Desallais, his birth-date, domicile and profession. “Thank you,” he said, slipping the highly prized card into his breast pocket. “How can I ever repay you for all that you’ve done for me, Fabienne?”

  “Repayment isn’t necessary between friends,” she told him, not quite meeting his eyes. “Just stay alive long enough to join the other allies. Your safety would be my reward, if I needed rewarding. You’ve become … precious to me.”

  Deeply moved by her words and demeanour he began: “We’ve never spoken of love, but … ”

  She raised one finger to his lips, saying: “Nor shall we ever speak of it. Let’s just reme
mber, Gilbert, that we’ve been more than friends and that we’ve brought each other a measure of happiness and comfort. After the war, you’ll go back to your wife, while I … ”

  Tears filled her eyes. He had never seen her cry before – had not known that she could cry. “My wife might not want me back,” he told her, “and even if she does, I … ”

  “Don’t hold out false hope for me,” she pleaded. “I value honesty … and have no desire, on an ongoing basis, to come second in your life. If I am not first, then I am nothing and would sooner die. Now, my love, kiss me one last time.”

  As they kissed she clung to him before pushing him forcibly from her. Her tone harder, her expression almost severe, she exclaimed: “We’ve delayed too long! There’s no time to waste, Gilbert, if we’re to reach our destination before dawn.”

  They crept down the creaking stairs to the café where she worked during the daytime and where they had first met when Otto entered one morning and ordered a coffee. Fabienne’s father, the proprietor, on noting the German uniform had taken the scalding drink across to Otto’s table and ‘accidentally’ spilled it over him, after which she had arrived with a cloth and an apology. That had been the beginning and she had said since that already then she had had a curious conviction as to his true allegiance. She was extraordinarily perceptive and now, as they stepped out into the deserted village street, he felt an overwhelming rush of love for her. It was suddenly as if all their precious time together were encapsulated in one moment: the most poignant he had ever known.

  The night air was cold and Otto was glad that Fabienne had thought to wear an overcoat. This was black like her dress and it occurred to him for the first time that he had seldom seen her in any colour but black. With hair almost as dark and long as Marie’s and such milky skin the effect was dramatic, but he would have liked to take her to a top couturier and spare no expense clothing her as she deserved to be clothed. Perhaps he would have a chance to do so after the war, assuming there would be an afterwards.

  To reduce risk of encountering the Boche, they needed to take a circuitous route to Auxerre. Walking briskly, hand-in-hand, they ducked down a side street between a small cluster of cottages with shuttered windows and past the village charcuterie to an avenue of trees. They were heading in a westerly direction and Otto found that once his eyes adjusted to the darkness he could see almost as well as if it were light. There was something soothing, too, about night and the cover it gave to two fugitives, as well as its all-pervasive stillness. Every so often the moon, which was almost full, would peep out from behind a scudding cloud to illuminate their path and remind them they were not entirely alone. Was that same moon shining now on Marie and Hugo? If so they would probably be asleep and unaware of its gentle presence. Otto wondered what they would think of his nocturnal activities.

  He was relieved to reach the river and start along its muddy bank for there was little likelihood of confronting a German patrol here. Having been patrolling as a German he had some idea as to their idiosyncrasies. He wished he didn’t but at a time like this his inside knowledge could have its advantages. Not that Fabienne had yet consulted him. She was in charge of his changeover and he was happy to have it so. Never before had he put quite so much trust in a woman, nor been so trusted by one. Perhaps on balance she was the more trusting, since Otto could easily have been lying about wishing to join the Allies. He knew of several instances where German army officers had posed as anti-Nazi, only to infiltrate the Resistance and make as many arrests for the Abwehr as their infiltration permitted.

  So if Fabienne’s judgment of him was wrong she risked being taken to Paris and tortured by the Gestapo until she squealed (not that he could imagine her turning informer and betraying her country any more than he could imagine that of Marie), after which – if she survived the torture, of course – the Ravensbrueck concentration camp would be her likeliest destination.

  Yes, she was taking a massive chance on him and Otto knew she was taking it because she had fallen in love. Thank God it was him she had fallen in love with and not one of the others! Or had he betrayed her by taking her to bed when his heart lay elsewhere? His thinking showed Otto that he was a changed man. Whereas once he had not considered his women, discarding them as carelessly as outmoded clothing, the war had taught him compassion.

  They were approaching a wooded area when a faint sound disturbed the stillness. Standing stock-still, they listened. Otto had not yet identified the gnat-like hum when Fabienne whispered: “It’s a low-flying aircraft – bringing more poil a gratter for the resistants, perhaps?”

  Despite himself Otto smiled. Fabienne was implying this might be an SOE plane carrying canisters of arms and ammunition - along, possibly, with itching powder such as had once been put in his uniform at the laundry. His skin had subsequently itched beyond belief – and, when he saw his colleagues scratching as frantically as he, it had dawned on him that they couldn’t all have fleas. He had later found traces of the powder in his trousers … and later still Fabienne had confirmed the truth. How the saboteurs’ humour had appealed to him, being so refreshingly un-German!

  The plane was almost overhead now and was slowing down, which could mean they were approaching a dropping zone although it might equally mean that the pilot was a Pole who was flying south-west when he should be flying south-east. Polish pilots were known for crass inconsistencies.

  It was to be hoped that they alone could hear the hum, unless other listeners were fellow-resistants. If the Gestapo or milice heard it they would not be long in forming their own reception committee for the proceeds of a drop.

  Otto continued to follow where Fabienne led, marvelling at her surefootedness. She was so graceful, too, like the gazelles he had seen on the African veldt, skimming between the trees and never needing to pause for breath. Watching her and trying to match her pace he began to feel his age. He was also beginning to regret the energy spent on their lovemaking. Imagine regretting making love! He must be in an even worse state than he had been admitting.

  An owl suddenly hooted from a branch high above him. Otto jumped, then looked up. He could see the bird’s white face, caught in a shaft of moonlight. There was a curious comfort in the sight, as if he and Fabienne were already in the presence of an ally. It would have been useful to be owls tonight, flying to Auxerre over the heads of any Nazis straying across their path. Otto dreaded to think what might happen to him if he encountered Claus Kessler and if the spiteful Claus saw through his disguise.

  He was just a lieutenant and yet behaved as if second in command to Hitler. He was so pompous and smug that Otto had once struck him in sheer exasperation and ever since Claus had had it in for him. It was thanks to Lieutenant Kessler that Otto had been dubbed ‘Humpelmann’ and seen at the barracks as a figure of fun. Claus maintained, loudly, that Otto was too old to be soldiering and that he should have been pensioned off long before the war began. None of which much mattered. It was Kessler’s vindictiveness in other areas that occupied Otto’s mind now. The man was like a replica of Ludwig – especially in his obsessive hatred toward Jews. He killed for killing’s sake and never killed quickly if he could inflict additional pain. He had promised long ago to get even with Otto and beyond doubt meant to keep his promise some day, just as Ludwig had kept his after a relatively patient wait.

  Otto only hoped he had done nothing yesterday to put Claus on his trail. He hoped it more for Fabienne and her father than for himself, since after tonight they would be at greatest risk from Kessler and his like. They were tied to their café and so were in a sense sitting targets for martyrdom. Should anything happen to Fabienne because of him Otto would never forgive himself.

  He was fingering the Mauser pistol that he had transferred from his uniform to his jacket pocket when a distant burst of machine-gunfire focussed his mind on their current plight. The sound was so sudden – and so loud, coming from within such stillness – that it was singularly shocking. Fabienne whispered to him: “The Boche
are between us and our destination. An unscheduled drop must have taken place, so we must make changes. Come this way.”

  Otto went without question where she led, his heart hammering against his ribs. Would they make it? If they didn’t, they might at least die together. He didn’t want to die alone and there were far worse fates than to die with this brave girl. The fact that all was silent again suggested the drop had indeed been an unscheduled one. Since a scheduled drop involved a maquis reception committee flashing up a morse code letter to the SOE pilot telling him he could safely off-load his parachutists and containers, the firing would have lasted considerably longer while the Boche dealt with the maquis as well as with two or three parachutists. Or had the ‘committee’ dispersed before the patrol could open fire … and were the Germans even now searching among these trees for resistants?

  Hardly had his query formed before Fabienne gasped, rocked sideways and crumpled in a heap at his feet. Almost tripping over her, Otto only just escaped being felled by the same ‘assailant’. But Fabienne’s positioning saved him, for he was stopped in his tracks just as his head was glanced by something hard and metallic. Had he been walking faster and suffered a harder hit he too would have been knocked senseless, for looking up he saw that Fabienne had been struck by a steel container approximately six feet long suspended by its parachute from a tree. It was weighty both in its own right and because it contained guns and ammunition. As Otto knelt beside Fabienne, unsure how best to revive her, he thought wryly that she would scorn succumbing to such a weapon, and scold herself vividly for not having noticed it in time. Stroking her cheeks he pleaded urgently: “Vite, Fabienne, ma cherie … vite, vite!”

  He had forgotten to whisper and his voice had sounded loud even to his own ears. Now, as she stirred slightly and whimpered, he bitterly regretted his oversight for he heard a twig snapping in the ensuing silence and felt a presence.