“So you knew this was coming all along?” Ryan was pissed.
“This business with Kohl?”
“Hell yes! What else?”
“I knew he was now working their side, but didn’t expect to find him here. He’s supposed to be in Berlin. Had I known he would be here, you can bet I wouldn’t have invited you along.” Ed placed a hand on Ryan’s shoulder. “God knows, we can’t risk another international incident with you in the middle, brother.” He spit out a shred of tobacco before returning the Lucky Strike to his lips.
“Kohl’s yours to deal with from here on out, Ed—I see him again, I throttle the man.” Ryan stared across the broad Place de la Concorde toward the Seine and absentmindedly took out his briar and tobacco pouch.
Ed took a long moment before responding. “Wouldn’t have it any other way, brother. Your own plate is full.” He struck a match. Ryan bent forward to accept the light and nodded his thanks. They stepped down the staircase fronting the Crillon and strode out across the imposing square, almost devoid of traffic despite the midday hour.
Ryan’s grand old Paris was no more, and the closer he looked, the more disappointed he became. So much had changed since he’d left the French capital almost three years before. The stunning architecture and lovely ironwork remained the same, and familiar monuments complemented a pearlescent summer sky. The glorious Arc de Triomphe shone far down to his right, the Eifel Tower rose skyward across the Seine, the gilded statues on the Pont de la Concorde, even the expansive breadth of the Place itself with its fountains and soaring Egyptian obelisk—all the same, and yet so very different.
Brilliant scarlet banners hung limply along the boulevards, swastikas distorted to random slashes of black on white. He remembered how bold and festive the flags had first appeared against the gray stone and low overcast of Berlin. Here they appeared gauche draping the architecture of the French capital. Where once smartly-dressed crowds of strolling Parisians lent culture and polish to the Champs-Élysées, now field-gray uniforms and polished jackboots evoked discord, resignation, and intimidation. Parisian class and feminine couture had surrendered to military chic, and the loud laughter and jesting of soldiers on leave seemed incongruous in this city once known for its genteel manner. Step carefully around approaching Germans or you might get a kick in the ass.
They passed cafés crowded with Wehrmacht officers, their polished boots extending into the aisles. Waiters in long, white aprons moved amongst them, keeping their demeanor obsequious. The men chatted and smoked over coffee and cake, a tableau suggestive of Ryan’s last days in Berlin. The coffee was real. He had already heard that other Parisians now drank a weak grain substitute. They passed an old man stooped into the gutter, rescuing cigarette butts abandoned half-smoked by the conquering heroes. Along the Seine the newsstands flashed headlines boasting of Wehrmacht successes and forecasting a speedy victory against the Bolshevik hoards. A tall green advertising column and the walls of a nearby pissoir were plastered with warnings against terrorist activity. The brothers stopped before a large poster as Ryan translated the call to victory. Bold signs on street posts directed the German occupiers to troop clubs, field hospitals, casernes and canteens. Paris had become an odd dreamscape, its backdrop familiar but the foreground surreal in a sea of uniforms.
And the traffic—bicycles and canvas-enclosed bicycle-taxis advertising Vitesse-Confort-Sécurité, their tinny bells jangling as drivers pedaled their way through the streets; horse-drawn carriages once again the norm after the occupying force outlawed French-owned private automobiles; the rare German staff car or Grosser Mercedes barreling along the broad avenues; a distant police siren, and then another. An occasional delivery vehicle spewed smoke from its wood-fired gazogène engine. And military trucks with swastika-bedecked hoods rolled from the city laden with French foodstuffs and commercial goods bound for the rail yards and Germany. Paris, spared massive destruction by her quick surrender, now offered citizens little but constant surveillance and increasing deprivation.
The brothers strolled through the Tuileries gardens and past the Louvre, crossing the Seine at the Pont Neuf. They opted for the right bank of the Isle-de-la-Cité. Ryan set aside his disgust at having seen Kohl in the knowledge that a reunion with Erika, Leo and René was at most a couple of days away. How very much the four of them had suffered three years before in that valiant attempt to escape her sadist husband and his Gestapo. Ryan had given them up for dead and nearly consumed himself with self-recrimination, and now within days he would guide them to freedom. He dreaded waiting another day for the train to Vichy, but their itinerary was subject to the slow-turning wheels of diplomacy. Thank God that was Ed’s calling, not his. He felt an incessant itch to be done with this changed city but knew nothing would happen without the official sanction of the Vichy Interior Ministry.
An embassy inquiry with the French authorities had already confirmed that his friends were still in Gurs. Happily the camp sat east of the demarcation line in what was designated—sometimes ironically—the “free” zone. For all Ryan knew, Horst’s plan for the annihilation of European Jewry might already be instituted in the occupied regions, and Ryan found himself racked again by the unending self-blame. If only Erika’s stolen evidence of the Nazi’s criminal intent had gone to someone other than Kohl. No telling how far implementation of that despicable protocol had already progressed now that Hitler’s troops were victorious on all fronts.
The French persecution had begun immediately following the armistice with seizure of Jewish property by the new Vichy government. The new anti-Semitic laws emerged without coaxing and with fervor even the Germans found surprising. Few Frenchmen cared enough to consider the injustice. Some Jewish merchants placed their medals and citations from the Great War in their shop windows, hoping to win favor for their earlier valiant service to France, but to little avail. Just months earlier six thousand foreign-born Jews had received orders to report to gathering centers in Paris, where the authorities shipped them off to Beaune-la-Rolande, way station to the German concentration camps. It was only a matter of time before the police would come knocking at the doors of the established and wealthier Jewish families in France. Perhaps then there’d be some outcry.
That very morning consular officials had described to Ed and Ryan the despicable state of the French internment camps, sharing reports of starvation, disease, and numerous deaths. Unlike a German concentration camp with brutal guards and barbed wire several meters high to prevent escape, Gurs had first housed Spaniards escaping Franco’s retaliation at the end of the Spanish civil war. Fearing detrimental effects on the local economy and populace, local French authorities detained the political refugees in quickly-constructed camps. Following the armistice, the new Vichy regime released many of the Spaniards to make room for foreign and Alsatian Jews shipped west after the Reich annexation of Alsace and Lorraine. Living conditions at Gurs appeared to be deplorable, although mail got through and some foodstuffs were available, especially to those with money. Rescuing his friends from that horror couldn’t come soon enough. He worried about their state of health from living in such pestilence-ridden conditions, but arranging their release would have to wait a while longer.
“Face it, Ryan, you’d better be prepared for the worst.” Ed recognized the intense concern on his brother’s face. It had recurred often as they made their way to Paris. “Even a few months in such a despicable camp can wreak havoc, especially on a child, and they’ve been in there for at least six months, based on your friend’s last note.”
“Where can I take them for immediate medical help?”
“Back to Vichy if they aren’t fit for travel to Marseille. I’ll be in the new capital for about a week, then it’s back to Paris for me. At least there we can have the embassy doctor treat any immediate health problems.”
“Now you’ve really got me worried, brother.”
“Tell you what—bring them to Vichy no matter what, okay? Healthy or sick. Marseille is the bes
t route out of the country, but at least we’ll know they’re okay. Once they’ve passed muster you can take them south and out of France. Then rejoin me in Paris.”
They crossed the tree-framed square, the impressive cathedral of Notre Dame rising up before them. Ryan had hoped that at least this one landmark would recall the untainted Paris of the recent past, and he wasn’t disappointed. The splendid façade and triple portal remained as they had for centuries. In this spot, at least, Paris remained Paris.
Ed hoped to distract Ryan from his immediate concerns, anything to forestall the deep melancholy which had plagued his younger brother so frequently since his last days in Europe. He couldn’t recall the last time Ryan’s face had lit up with that trademark smile. “Pretty magnificent, just as you described it.” Ed scanned the massive gothic towers of the cathedral. “I think I just saw Quasimodo up there.”
Ryan played along: “You can’t still be referring to Kohl—at least the ugly Quasimodo had a tender heart.” Ryan wouldn’t burden his brother further with his personal worries.
They tried the main entrance, but an armed guard rebuffed them, declaring a contingent of high-ranking German officers had first claim to the French cultural landmark. “Come on, Ed—let’s head around to the gardens in back. The view of the flying buttresses from the Pont St. Louis is fantastic.”
“Sorry, Ryan, that’s it for me today. I’m due back at the consulate—transfer paperwork to complete and hands to shake, as always—but do continue your rounds. Perhaps you’ll still find a bit more of that old Paris you’re missing.”
“I appreciate your accompanying me this far. Needed the distraction. Just seeing that bastard again really set my teeth on edge.” Ryan watched the newly-arrived Wehrmacht officers enter the cathedral unmolested. “You’ll actually have to work hand-in-hand with Kohl?”
“That’s what Foreign Service is all about. You can’t pick your bed-fellows—you only hope they’re not overly infested with vermin.”
“Well, say the word and I’ll gladly crush that particular louse.” His face brightened. “As for me, it’s the subway to Montmartre.”
“Ah, your little Miss Lesney? Ed’s heavy eyebrows lifted. “Some things never change.”
“I do owe Marita a quick visit, Ed. She tried her best to cheer me up when I was at my lowest. The least I can do is make sure she’s doing all right with her cabaret. Perhaps there’s some help I can offer.”
“Just don’t let that ‘help’ keep you overnight. And use protection.” Ed laughed. “One surprise kid’s enough, unless you plan to make an honest woman of this dancer of yours.” During the Clipper flight to Lisbon Ryan had revealed that he was likely Leo’s father.
“Never fear, brother, I’ve learned my lesson well.”
“Train leaves at nine in the morning, and I’m told tickets these days are rarer than a perfectly-seared steak au poivre.” Edward gave a throaty chuckle at his own way with words. “But just in case you don’t make it back to the hotel tonight—it’s Gare de Lyon, eight-thirty sharp, out front, and no excuses. I’ll bring your bag from the hotel should we not meet before then.”
With a dismissive wave Ryan headed off toward the Châtelet Métro station. With luck, Marita would already be in her office above la Chatte bottée, preparing for the evening’s revelry. If not, he would drop by her apartment just a few blocks from the night club. Her welcome would be warm either way, and he began to feel better about himself again for the first time in years. Once Erika and Leo were safely at the American consulate in Lisbon, he would be ready to take on his new assignment, and Marita would make a great first contact in Paris.
He fought his way down the crowded steps into the Métro, lined up to purchase a ticket at the booth, and finally passed through the turnstile. A rush of cool air drew him into the dampness of the labyrinthine complex, a welcome escape from the city’s heat. The corridors were packed elbow-to-elbow with sweaty, harried commuters. From below came the screech of metal on metal as the cars made their constant stops to disgorge and take on passengers.
Ryan followed signs on the white-tiled walls toward the platform showing the end station Porte de Clignancourt. Armed metropolitan police, bored and smoking, gathered on the train-level landing, and German uniforms formed pools of field-gray in the mass of drably-dressed Parisian passengers. The French faces were pallid and drawn, cheeks sunken and eyes hollow. The Germans appeared pink-cheeked and well-fed.
A train rolled in and the doors slid open. The Wehrmacht soldiers rapidly occupied the red-lacquered first-class section where they rode at no charge. Ryan stepped into the green of second and reached for the overhead bar. The car filled quickly. Several riders glanced his way before moving on, while others found places beside him. He felt conspicuous with his well-cut suit and nourished look.
As the doors began to close, a man in a herringbone jacket with loosened tie suddenly leapt aboard, fedora pulled so low that only a neatly-groomed, graying mustache appeared beneath the brim. He worked his way through the car to find standing room at the far end, and Ryan followed the stranger’s progress. Years living in a secret police state had taught him to be curious and ever vigilant, and old habits were surfacing again. He recognized his own suspicious nature, for there was undoubtedly nothing unusual about the man.
The train slid into the darkness, and Ryan smiled in fond memory. Ceramic wall signs announced each station as they entered, halted, then rolled on, reminding him of earlier, carefree days when he had known these subway routes by heart. Here in the maze of tunnels beneath the city, Paris felt like home again.
It was good not to have phoned Marita in advance. She was truly in for a surprise.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Paris, Occupied France
11 August 1941
Marita slid one leg slowly across his hip to press insistently against him. His eyes remained closed as he feigned disinterest. Her finger traced a line from his belly up his chest, and her tongue circled his nipple in the lightest of caresses. He hardened beneath the pressure of her thigh. In one move she straddled him, and he surrendered at last, his eyes opening and his wide smile showing appreciation for the lovely woman above him, her dark hair falling unbound to frame her pale face. Her flushed breasts betrayed arousal, should any doubt still linger. None did. She guided him with her hand and once again they moved in unison.
Marita knew his attention was divided—always so much on this man’s mind—so she proceeded slowly, manipulating him with agonizing restraint until he focused solely on her. She admired the flexing of his muscles in response to her movement, and his hands followed the curve of her hips and waist to gently knead her breasts and tug at her nipples until she moaned softly.
She lowered her mouth to his ear. “Lentement, mon amour, toujours lentement.” Slowly, she whispered, knowing he was near. He slowed, and then she surprised him by moving with abandon, tossing her long hair from side to side until they both surrendered. Marita gasped at the deep waves of pleasure, relishing that rare moment when worries and the hunger in her belly briefly ceased. He drew her close and kissed her lips and chin and neck, then pulled her into the cradle of his arm.
She would have loved to remain there, to savor the warmth of the moment. Instead she sat abruptly upright in the tousled sheets and looked about for clothing lost in the passion of their reunion. She dried her thighs with the corner of the sheet, then slipped on panties and fastened her garter belt, rolling one crumpled stocking into place before searching for its missing partner.
“Where’d it land, mon Cher?” Her eyes searched the bed and floor in the near blackness. She lit a cigarette, took one quick puff and stuck the Gauloises between his lips.
“I’m supposed to encourage you to leave?” He took a single drag and buried the butt in the ashtray. The dim evening sky filled the room with a diffused glow.
“It can’t have gone far.” She bent to peer beneath the bed before shoving aside the pillows to find the missing silk. Sitting on
the edge she drew on the fine material—so difficult to acquire now, even on the black market. Pointing her leg in a dancer’s pose, she slowly rolled the stocking to her thigh and clipped it to the garter, then fended off his attempts to cup her breasts, to pull her back to him.
“Ça suffit,” Marita said. “Enough already, I must put things in order for this evening’s guests. And you—what’s on your agenda tonight, now that you’ve had all you want of me?”
“Certainly all you offered, but not all I want.” He rolled from the bed and moved to the window, his silhouette framed in the moonlight. The blackout drapes had remained open upon his unexpected arrival, and the darkening city spread out in the distance. What little man-made illumination remained suggested a romantic Paris of centuries past rather than fear of danger coming from the skies.
She felt herself respond again at the sight of his muscular body against the soft light. He strode to the chair where he had tossed his clothing and pulled on an undershirt. Before dressing further, he grabbed his hat, set it atop his head at a jaunty angle, then turned and saluted her, his lingering tumescence saluting, as well.
Marita laughed out loud at the ludicrous yet appealing sight—a striking figure of a man, for all intents naked, his military cap incongruous without the full uniform of a Wehrmacht lieutenant. Truly a beautiful specimen of a Boche, this lover of mine.
Ryan ascended from the Métro stop into a remarkably quiet scene. The last rays of the sun had left both Boulevard de Clichy and Rue Pigalle in deep shadow. Only an occasional pedestrian was still out and about, and the street was almost free of vehicles of any kind. The loss of most internal combustion engines when the occupation government outlawed private vehicles had rendered the city nearly mute.
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