The Red Rooster
by Michael Wallace
Copyright © 2011 by Michael Wallace
original cover art by Jeroen Ten Berge - http://jeroentenberge.com/
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Prologue:
June 2, 1940
Among the throngs fleeing the port at Dunkirk was a young woman from Spain, seventeen years old, who wanted to return to the front lines. She had passage across the Channel, papers paid for with a man’s life and a small fortune in twenty franc notes, and a cousin waiting in London. She kicked off her shoes, gathered her dress and prepared to jump overboard.
The captain of the overburdened boat grabbed her arm with a bandaged hand. His eyes were wild. “Stupid girl, you’ll die, you’ll never make it.”
Gabriela barely heard him, could only think about her father and it made her angry and afraid.
You lied. You said you were coming back and you never meant it.
Instead, he’d left her on this shot-up listing fishing boat, lashed to the side of the British gunboat and crowded with children, embassy staff, and soldiers. He meant to face the Germans without her.
“What’s wrong with you, aren’t you listening?” the captain said. “Fine, die for all I care, I won’t stay a minute longer.”
Gabriela braced herself and jumped.
The water was cold. She went under and into silence. Gone were the shouting, cursing soldiers, the rumble of artillery and the high-pitched whine of brawling fighter planes, the British destroyers hurling shells across the water and into the city.
She came up in a wreckage of splintered oars, broken barrels, shoes, army jackets, papers, flailing people with or without life jackets. The water tasted bitter, oily. An explosion, a spout of water. Anti-aircraft fire sliced the sky against two screaming dive-bombers. She paddled toward the beach, and the hundreds of British and French soldiers wading into the water.
A soldier pulled her onto the beach, asking questions in English, what sounded like a variation of what the fishing boat captain had been screaming.
“No, I’m going back, I need to find my father. Let go!”
More English, two soldiers now, trying to calm her, take her back into the water and toward the ramshackle flotilla evacuating the beaches. Gabriela struggled and kicked and finally they let her go. She ran barefoot across the sand, back toward town. Burning half-tracks littered the beach, together with overturned trucks, an aircraft fuselage, rifles tossed in piles by fleeing soldiers. The ground shuddered, threw her down. She picked herself up.
Her father had lied, he’d stuck his head in the noose to save her. He’d sacrificed himself, and for what? Did he think she’d take it?
Chapter One:
September 18, 1942
The Italian waggled his finger in Gabriela’s face. “Eleven francs. No more.”
She extended the jade brooch until she held it under his nose. “Please, look closer.” Gabriela fought to keep from sounding desperate, a difficult task two years into her nightmare. “The dragonfly wings are so delicate, and look at the detail. How about thirteen, it’s just two more francs.”
He shook his head without looking down. “Eleven.”
“There are other stalls, you know.”
Sure, and you’ve tried them all, haven’t you?
A hundred other stalls, and ten thousand people in worn shoes and threadbare socks, empty stomachs, some with hungry children, all trying to offload their last, precious possessions.
Gabriela owed her landlords thirty, had sold almost everything she owned, and was down to selling half her ration cards so she could buy food with the other half. What good would eleven francs do? Thirteen, for that matter?
“Eleven. Take it or not.”
She pulled back her hand. “My father gave this brooch to my mother. She’s dead. I can’t possibly sell it for eleven francs.”
“Listen girl, nobody cares.” The voice belonged to a woman queued behind her, holding silk scarves. Behind her, a man with a pair of silver candlesticks who looked suspiciously like a Jew. In the marché aux puces, nobody much bothered with that.
She’d seen all types in the flea markets of Paris. Hadn’t she been here a hundred times to sell her father’s things? His boots, belts, greatcoat, books of Spanish poetry, leather journals, his watch, even paintings of mother; all brought a few precious centimes or francs. Two weeks ago she’d sold the trunk itself, brought from Spain.
She kept a few meager possessions, her favorite of which was his meerschaum pipe, amber from years of smoking. It still held the aroma of tobacco and she couldn’t smell it without imagining him in his chair. When she came in and saw him smoking, she could almost see the cloud of thoughts rising above his head with the pipe smoke. He would urge her to sit down, pull out a small wooden box of imported Belgian chocolates, and then pontificate: rubber plantations in Ceylon, the proper ratio of shellfish to sausage in a mixed paella, or the development of the steam engine. It didn’t matter the subject, he was so energetic that she would sit and listen, eating chocolates while he gesticulated with his pipe and his latest book.
Selling the pipe would be like selling those memories.
The stall owner’s scowl hardened. “Eleven. Either make a deal or get the hell out of my line. I’m busy.”
“All right, then, eleven.” She made to hand over the brooch to the stall owner, already fumbling in his pocket for the bills, when a young woman took her wrist.
“Eleven francs, are you crazy?” the woman asked.
The speaker was close to Gabriela’s own age. She had a fresh, carefree air and looked glamorous in her green dress with dainty straps over the shoulders. Nylons, a whiff of perfume, red lipstick, long eyelashes.
“That’s all I can get,” Gabriela said. “I’ve tried, God help me.”
“Don’t let this man rob you. I’ll pay you twenty, how about that?” The other girl opened her purse. She pulled out some mixed bills that included reichsmarks and francs. “Twenty. Do we have a deal?”
“Hey, what are you doing?” the Italian demanded. “That’s mine, I bought it already.” He shoved his money at Gabriela and grabbed for the brooch.
She jerked it back. “This woman says twenty. Will you give me more?”
“Dammit, we had an agreement.” He turned his anger to the young woman. “You, who do you think you are?”
The young woman laughed and gave a brushing off motion. She took Gabriela’s arm and led her a few paces from the crowd. Her heels clicked smartly on the pavement.
Gabriela worried the stall owner would pursue them, but he was already haggling with the owner of the scarves, while the queue of sellers patiently waited their turn. Meanwhile the crowd swirled around them. Children, begging. Young, shiftless men. An old war veteran in his cloak, toothless and smelling of whiskey and sour sweat.
“I can’t believe he thought you’d take eleven. May as well steal it. Your brooch is worth at least twice what I offered, you know that.”
“Maybe before the war.”
The young woman held out the money. “If you want to ask around for more, I understand. Otherwise, I’m delighted to pay twenty. It’s a beautiful brooch.”
“No, no, I’ll take it.”
Gabriela took the twenty francs and handed over the brooch before the girl could change her mind. She tucked the money into her bra, glanced around to make sure she hadn’t attracted the attention of pickpockets. Her gaze caught the uniformed Germans who idled in the shade at the edge of the street. Th
e Eiffel Tower lifted behind them, topped by a swastika flag that flapped back and forth in a lazy salute. One man smoked a cigarette, while the other polished his rifle butt with a handkerchief.
She was always searching for one German in particular, the man who knew about Papá. These two were just ordinary soldiers.
“It’s beautiful,” the girl said. “I feel so guilty. I should have paid you more.”
“Thank you anyway, you were generous,” Gabriela said, using the formal address in French.
“Oh, don’t give me that vous nonsense. It’s so formal and stuffy, and I’m not that old. How old are you?”
“Almost twenty.”
Am I? My god, has it been two years already?
“See, I knew it. We’re the same age. My name is Christine.”
“I’m Gabriela. Gaby, I mean.”
“Well, Gaby, I took advantage of you, I admit it.” She held up the brooch, admired it, then slipped it into her purse. Gabriela felt a pang of loss. Her mother’s brooch, and now it was gone. At least she’d sold it for more than she’d dreamed just a few minutes earlier.
“Are you from Paris?” Christine asked.
“No,” she admitted.
“I’m so glad. I’m tired of these snobby Parisiennes. Oh! I’m ready to faint I’m so hungry. You must be too, arguing with that horrible Italian. Can I buy you a sausage? I know a man who sells them out of a cart.” She gave Gabriela a confidential smile. “No ration coupons required.”
Gabriela would have declined out of polite habit, not to mention the punishing urge to go back to her cramped, dingy flat she shared with her landlords and curl into a ball, but her stomach growled so loudly at the mention of sausage that she thought it must have been audible over the shouting touts, the haggling, the crying children. “Yes, please. That would be very nice of you.”
The sausage, when tracked down from the illegal vendor, was obscenely expensive compared to pre-war prices, and just as obscenely good. It had been weeks since Gabriela had tasted meat and that had been a scrap of chicken, so dry it was almost desiccated. This was thick and juicy. She took a bite and rich fat, hot and delicious, slid down her chin. Christine laughed and helped her clean it up with her handkerchief.
“I’m sorry,” Gabriela said around mouthfuls. Her fingers were burning on the wax paper, her tongue burning too, but she didn’t care. “I haven’t had lunch. In fact, I haven’t had a proper meal for about three weeks.”
A thin girl of four or five stared at them eating. She clutched her mother’s dress. The mother tried to sell bunches of daisies to passersby.
Christine took her elbow and led her away. “I know what that’s like. Times are tough.”
“Times are tough?” Gabriela put a smile into her voice. “Isn’t that like observing there are Germans in Paris? Or saying a lot of Catholics hang around Notre Dame?”
Christine laughed. “Well, I hope the money comes in handy. Hey, are you waiting for someone?”
“What? Oh, no. Not really.” Gabriela realized she had been scanning the crowd again. Looking for the Gestapo agent who could help her find her father.
“Who do you live with? Your parents? Husband?”
Gabriela shook her head. “I don’t have anyone. I’m fighting it out by myself.”
“But where do you live?” Christine asked.
“With my landlords in the 14th Arrondissement. Not so nice, but it keeps me warm.”
“You may not believe it, but I know what that’s like. I have to work to keep fed.”
“Oh, you have a job?” Gabriela found herself reappraising Christine. Not a rich girl then. But what kind of job paid well enough to buy black market sausages for strangers?
“I grew up near Marseille. Came up with my sister a couple of years ago, but her husband went east on a work crew—POW, you know—and she got permission to join him in Germany. My mother wants me back in Provence. Probably to get married, but she won’t admit it. I don’t want to go, so I got a job in a restaurant called Le Coq Rouge, in the 4th. You know the place?”
“No, I don’t think so.”
“Good food, nice people. You should stop by some time. Maybe you could, I don’t know, get a job.”
Work in a restaurant sounded perfect. Something to feed herself while she continued her search for Papá. Gabriela had already scoured the city for work, of course, but never managed to find anything, and wondered how Christine had managed.
“What do you do, wait tables?” Gabriela asked.
“Not exactly. I’m more of an entertainer.”
“And that’s what you do at the restaurant? Entertain Germans?”
“In a manner of speaking,” Christine said.
“But how, exactly? Is it singing or something?”
“No, not exactly. Companionship, more like. They’re a long way from home and you know, the boches aren’t monsters. Most of them, I mean. They get lonely like anyone else.”
“Ah, I see.”
Her new-found friend must have caught something in her tone. “No, it’s not like that. You know how it is when you get a boyfriend? Maybe you like him because he’s cute and you think you want to marry him, but that’s not always what it’s like, is it? Sometimes you’re just bored and you think it would be fun to walk along the canal holding hands and stopping under the bridges to kiss. Or maybe he’s kind of dull, but he’s rich and he buys you nice things. It’s kind of like that.”
“So they buy you nice things?”
“Sometimes,” Christine said. “And sometimes it’s just good food and wine and the chance to feel pretty again, like a woman, a real woman. You understand, it’s not like those en carte girls, who work for money. It’s not like a job.”
“I don’t know.”
She did know, actually. It sounded disgusting.
“Try to be open minded,” Christine said.
“But if it’s not a job, why does the restaurant let you in?”
“Pretty girls attract business, and besides, Monsieur Leblanc puts us to work and doesn’t have to pay us. It’s better than it sounds. Besides, one doesn’t have to work as a hostess. Sometimes girls help in the kitchen while they figure out what they want to do.”
“Kitchen work doesn’t sound so bad.”
“You know, he’s looking for another dishwasher. I could introduce you.”
Gabriela was suspicious enough of the whole arrangement that she started to say no, but then thought about the Germans who made up the restaurant’s clientele. Could it be a new place to search?
The truth was, she’d run out of places to look. Over the last two years, she’d worn holes in her shoes walking back and forth to the German embassy where she’d queue in the drizzling rain only to be turned away. She’d written stacks of letters to Vichy officials, to work-camp officers, to Todt representatives. To anyone and everyone who might have news of her father. No word of him or the man who’d arrested him.
And food. The restaurant would mean a break from the ever-present gnawing, that feeling of being eaten alive from the inside.
“Hey, come over here,” Christine said. “I want to show you something.”
The something turned out to be the art Christine had discovered in an outdoor shop, tucked behind an armoire that smelled like mothballs. The paintings should have been hanging in some gallery, rather than stuffed into a dented metal footlocker. By the time they finished admiring the art, Gabriela had decided to take Christine’s advice and stop by Le Coq Rouge, to see if this Monsieur Leblanc needed help.
“That’s great,” Christine said. “It’ll be so much better than surrendering your treasures to thieves in the flea markets. You’ll see.”
“But in the kitchen, you understand.”
“The what?”
“Working in the kitchen,” Gabriela repeated. She spoke as firmly as possible. “I’ll wash dishes, but I’m not going to be a hostess.”
“Oh, that. No one will ever make you. I promise.”
C
hapter Two:
And yet it was only a few months before Gabriela stood before Christine, wearing her only dress, her last sliver of lipstick and a borrowed dab of perfume.
“Don’t I look like the sexiest prostitute in Paris?” Gabriela asked.
Christine grabbed her arm. “The colonel? Did you listen to anything I taught you?” Gabriela felt like she was watching the scene from a distance. She couldn’t possibly be leaving the comforting warmth and anonymity of the kitchen to seduce the Gestapo officer. Surely that was someone else. But then why was she dressed up like this?
“Gaby, are you listening?”
“Have you heard about the nuns buying bread?” Gabriela asked. “A German tried to jump the queue and they attacked him with their rosaries.”
Christine blinked. “That sounds like the start of a joke.”
“The boche lost two teeth. Fourteen nuns arrested. And what about the paper this morning? They caught an English spy in the 3rd Arrondissement. Turns out he was a Jew. Or so the Gestapo is claiming.”
“I heard.”
“The girl who did his laundry turned him in, and know why?” Gabriela asked.
Christine shrugged. “Because he was a Jew?”
“The laundress didn’t care if he was a Jew or English or a spy. But his French was terrible and he wouldn’t take any correction. That’s how she knew he was no good.”
Behind them, the clank of dishes, the smell of caramelizing onions, the cook complaining to Leblanc about the impossibility of working under these conditions: the dish needed butter, the carrots were limp, this chicken was tough and stringy. Where the hell was the garlic?
“Gaby, what are you doing?” Christine asked.
“I’m going to seduce that man. I already told you that.”
“Listen to me. There are two other Germans at the table. Better looking, richer, safer. Why does it have to be the Gestapo bastard?”
“You choose your clients, I’ll choose mine.”
“Gaby, for god’s sake, it’s your first. Play it safe.”
“Just trust me, I’ll be fine.”
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