B004U2USMY EBOK

by Wallace, Michael

  “But why would you be worried, you haven’t done anything, have you?” she asked.

  “No, of course not.” It came out a bit too quickly. “But suppose I get into a conversation with another officer and he says something imprudent about the war. And suppose Hoekman overhears? I’d be guilty of nothing, but it wouldn’t matter. The Eastern Front always needs reinforcements. He’s just that type of man.”

  “I know it.”

  Alfonse tried to put his hand on her leg, but this time she refused to be baited. Instead, she looked out the window at the Paris streets rushing past. She had to get rid of him and get back to Le Coq Rouge, but how?

  As they crossed the Seine on the crowded Pont au Change, Alfonse rolled down his window and flicked the half-smoked cigarette into the street. Immediately, a small boy scrambled into the road, dodging bicycles, to retrieve the cigarette. There was a brisk market in half-smoked butts and the city had no shortage of hungry, enterprising children to gather them. But one of the bike riders had also spotted the smoldering butt and hopped down off his bike. Gabriela turned her head to watch through the rear window, hoping the boy would reach it first.

  The boy reached the smoldering cigarette a fraction of a second earlier, but the bicycle rider pushed him out of the way and snatched it up. A moment later he was smoking it while the child sat on his backside and watched.

  Alfonse’s driver cursed in German. The end of the bridge was clogged with bicycles and carts and they weren’t moving. He honked his horn. Alfonse leaned forward with an impatient frown.

  Behind them, the boy wandered off, while the man continued to puff on the found cigarette. At last he picked his way through the crowd to where he’d abandoned his bicycle, only to stand with a helpless expression. His bicycle had disappeared while he’d scrambled for the cigarette. She hadn’t seen it either, and it was impossible to spot the thief in the sea of bicycles.

  Her first thought was the bastard deserved it. The boy had won fair and square; it was a petty cruelty to shove him out of the way and steal his prize. One theft begat another. But the man looked around him, then lifted his hands to his face with a look of such bewilderment and despair that she only felt sorry for him. He’d stolen the cigarette, not out of any real malice, but simply to grab a moment of pleasure in this hard city. And now the hard city had made him pay.

  “Finally,” Alfonse said as the crowd responded at last to the continuous honking. He did not appear to have noticed the drama playing out to their rear.

  Her resolve stiffened. She had to get back to the restaurant and if Alfonse wouldn’t take her, she’d have to find her way back herself. An idea came to her.

  Gabriela put a whine in her voice. “I’m still hungry.”

  He patted her knee. “We’ll be there in a few minutes.”

  “Do you know a place called the Egyptienne?”

  “Sure, Boulevard de Clichy, short walk from the Moulin Rouge. It’s a maison close, isn’t it? I’ve heard Goering is a regular when he’s in Paris. But why would you want to go there?”

  “Of course we would never go there,” she said in a shocked tone. Again, that illusion that she’d just been a hard-working girl at Le Coq Rouge, who just happened to find German majors attractive in their own right. “But there’s a good restaurant in front. I thought we could eat there.”

  Truth was, the en carte girls and the nude dancers at the Egyptienne stepped into the restaurant during breaks in the action. During her long, fruitless search for employment, Gabriela had once entered to ask about jobs and been taken for one of the working girls. She’d huffed off, offended that anyone could think such a thing. Remembering the humiliating incident made her aware that she was wearing panties, nylons, dress, shoes, perfume, and lipstick gifted by her German patron. In appearance and behavior, she would fit right in with the en carte girls. Life had a way of punishing you for your hubris in the most ironic fashion possible.

  “Okay, if that’s what you want.” Alfonse gave instructions to the driver, then sat back and ran his hand beneath her dress again. A moment later he was nibbling her ear. “On second thought, this could be fun.”

  How hard would it be to deflect his attention to some other pretty thing? Not particularly difficult, she suspected.

  Chapter Nine:

  The train came under attack several hours into its trip. Boredom and fatigue had replaced Helmut’s initial rush of fear at being taken into custody. The prison car had no windows and he leaned against the wall, dozing as much as possible against the rattle of the train and the discomfort of his manacles. He sank into a lethargy, only occasionally punctuated by moments of full-blown panic as he remembered what awaited him upon his arrival in Germany.

  The first indication of trouble was the sound of the roof-mounted anti-aircraft gun chattering from several cars up. All at once the guards were diving to the floor. Helmut and his fellow prisoners—a mixture of maquis, communists, intercepted spies, captured airmen, and even a Jewish banker expelled from Vichy and taken into custody by the Gestapo—did not have this option, hampered as they were by chains and manacles. Shouts for help in German, French, Italian, English.

  The train shuddered and the roof peeled open. Something splattered across his face. Shards of sunlight thrust into the car. The gunfire receded, replaced by screams. No more words. Dying, all men sounded remarkably the same.

  The guard stationed near Helmut lay on the ground, writhing like a man in the grip of a seizure, his face clenched into a grimace. The heavy caliber machine guns of the strafing fighter had turned one of his arms to pulp. Moments earlier, he’d been talking to a fellow guard about an Austrian girl they both knew named Helen. Apparently Helen had red hair, a shapely bottom, and freckles on her breasts. A lively discussion about the color of hair between her legs. Copper? Full-on red? A lovely auburn shade?

  This young man would never find out unless someone stopped the gush of blood from his ruined arm.

  As Helmut looked for someone to help, he noticed the Jewish banker at his side seemed to be in trouble. The man was a quiet little man with a pair of thin lips and a mustache that looked, ironically, rather like Hitler’s. A couple of hours earlier, he’d asked, improbably, if Helmut knew the time difference between New York and Berlin—as if he were expecting a call from Wall Street upon their arrival—then, when Helmut said he guessed eight hours, had nodded and said cryptically, “It will have to do. And I suppose I don’t have much of a choice in any event.”

  The gunfire had liberated the man from his chains. He slumped to the floor, until it looked like he was resting his head in the injured guard’s lap. And then Helmut saw how he’d freed himself from his chains; the lower half of his body remained in its seat. Helmut turned and the biscuits and milk they’d given him for lunch came up.

  A dark shadow passed overhead and an engine that screamed like some hideous bird of prey. It breathed fire onto the train and several rows ahead prisoners and guards jerked and jived, and suddenly the screaming of the engine sounded like a tuneless song, and the dying men looked like dancers. When the plane passed, the screams and shrieks and curses filled the empty space. The smell of blood and hot metal. Helmut ducked down and clenched his eyes shut, sure that the next pass would be the last for him.

  But then he heard a blessed sound in the distance. The familiar whine of Messerschmitt interceptors, two from the sound of it. He’d spent three weeks running supply trains to Calais early in the war and heard that sound hundreds of times as Messerschmitts raced off to battle Spitfires over southern England and the Channel.

  The anti-aircraft continued its angry chatter for a few more seconds and then the sound of both the Messerchmitts and the attacking plane disappeared in the distance. The train didn’t stop.

  The guards collected themselves, turned to injured comrades. A medic appeared. They shot a prisoner in the head; presumably, his injuries were too great to survive. Injured men moaned, then cried out as they were moved.

  A ver
y pale, very young soldier checked Helmut’s restraints. Just a boy, really. His hand trembled. It was the second of the two men who’d spoken so lovingly about Helen’s freckles, breasts, and bottom. They’d carried off his friend. He met Helmut’s gaze with a haunted expression. “My god, I can’t take this,” he said in a low voice. “I’ve got to get out of here.”

  Helmut grabbed the soldier’s hand and squeezed. “It’s over. You pulled through.”

  “I’m a coward.”

  “No, you’re not. Look around you, men are dead and dying. You’re standing and doing your job. You’re one of the brave ones.”

  The boy swallowed hard and something like gratitude passed over his face. He gave a brisk nod and then continued down the row, checking prisoners. The train continued to clatter its way into the heart of the Reich. Apparently the engine—no doubt the real target of the strafing run—had emerged from the attack unscathed.

  Helmut closed his eyes and tried to remember the day with Marie-Élise at Chenonceau. The sunlight, the smell of the garden, the bread and cheese and wine. Marie-Élise’s face, so young and vulnerable and beautiful.

  #

  “Gaby!” cried a familiar voice as Gabriela waited in front of the Egyptienne.

  Loud laughter and music from inside. A Frenchman in a crisp blue uniform with gold epaulettes festooned with tassels stood at the door and let people enter or turned them away, depending on some mysterious criteria. Gabriela had been afraid to approach the gatekeeper until Alfonse returned from parking the car. Maybe the doorman would look at her and say she wasn’t pretty enough or ask if she was a Spaniard or a Jew.

  She turned at the sound of her name. It was Christine. She was dressed glamorously, with a shimmering skirt, a glossy blouse, white gloves, and a long cigarette holder in her hands, but no cigarette. Christine greeted her with a kiss to each cheek.

  “I thought you were supposed to be at the restaurant,” Christine said.

  “Planning to go later, what about you?”

  “Not until curfew,” Christine said. “Until then, I’m trying to get in here.”

  “And you can’t just walk in? You’re plenty pretty enough.”

  “A few weeks ago there was an…incident. I can’t get in without a man, so I’ve been waiting to see if there’s anyone I know.”

  “Oh.” She started to ask what kind of incident, but just then Alfonse came back from the car. No sign of the driver; she didn’t suppose the Egyptienne was the sort of place that welcomed corporals.

  Christine gave Gabriela a significant look before turning her charms to the major. “Alfonse, my love, how are you?”

  He gave her a charming smile. “Leblanc must be frantic with his two prettiest girls out. I’ll bet the clients take one look inside and decide to go somewhere else.”

  Another German officer passed, accompanied by two elegantly dressed Frenchmen. They smiled at the girls, who returned the look coquettishly.

  “You might be right,” Gabriela said. “Look at all the men who are following us here. Handsome men, too.”

  Alfonse gave what sounded like a good-natured grunt of faux jealousy. “Hmm, maybe we’re safer inside, where the two of you have some competition.”

  “Let’s go then,” Gabriela said. “It’s cold out here. Oh, I asked Christine to dine with us. I hope that’s okay.”

  “Bringing two pretty girls to the Egyptienne?” He grinned. “Isn’t that like bringing sand to the beach?”

  #

  Gabriela had claimed she wanted to go to the restaurant to eat, but she put on a pouty, capricious act once they got inside. It was empty, that was boring. And she wasn’t hungry anymore anyway. “Let’s go to the lounge instead.”

  “Are you sure? I thought you said—”

  Gabriela tugged on his arm. “Oh, come on. It’ll be fun.”

  She caught Christine watching with a thoughtful expression, but her friend said nothing.

  They continued through the restaurant and into the lounge at the rear of the gentleman’s club. There were twenty men or more smoking water pipes, drinking, eating on the floor, propped against pillows on luxurious carpets like they were in some Turkish harem. Others played billiards, cards, or darts at the back, or sang bawdy songs around the piano.

  For every man in the club there were two or three women. Young, attractive and, to Gabriela’s shock, each and every one of them was topless. They drank and sang and sat on laps, giggling. One girl went hand-in-hand with a German into a back room.

  Alfonse’s face lit up and he turned to look at each and every pair of jiggling breasts. “Did I ever tell you how much I love Paris?”

  “Hmm, South Sea Islands night,” Christine said. She shrugged and started to unbutton her blouse. “We don’t want to stand out.”

  “I don’t see anything that looks like the Pacific Islands,” Gabriela said. “Shouldn’t we wear coconuts or something?”

  “Oh, come on, Gaby,” Alfonse said as he watched Christine undress. “Don’t be such a prude. You’re among the natives, you need to act like one. Come on, I’ll help.”

  She slapped away his outstretched hand and forced a light smile to her face. “So now you want to undress me in public? Oh, you naughty man.”

  Christine had by now removed her blouse and unhooked her brassiere, liberating her breasts. They were small and very firm and she fluffed them a bit. Tweaked her nipples to make them stand up. Alfonse watched with a delighted expression.

  There seemed to be no choice and so Gabriela reluctantly unbuttoned her blouse and took off her own brassiere. A topless waitress came by with drinks and took their discarded clothing without prompting. Gabriela resisted the urge to cross her arms over her chest.

  “Very nice,” Christine said with an admiring glance. “You’re such a beautiful girl, makes me jealous. Don’t you think she’s beautiful, Alfonse?”

  He stared. “Oh, you’re both ravishing.”

  When Gabriela couldn’t stand the self-conscious feeling any longer, she said, “Let’s get something to eat. I’m starving.”

  “And I’m dying of thirst,” Alfonse said.

  “I believe we can satisfy all appetites tonight,” Christine said.

  Other girls passed them by, sizing them up. She saw one girl in particular eye Christine with a frown and Gabriela found herself wondering about the “incident.”

  They took a seat among the stuffed pillows and the food appeared within moments. Scallops in garlic and butter, olives, beef tips in wine sauce, sauteed champignons, shrimp, apricot pork loin; the food was so rich and in such quantities that Gabriela forgot for a moment the rations, the queues, the time she’d found the torn-out pages of a cookbook on a bench in the Luxembourg Gardens and spent the next two hours pouring over the recipes with the same naughty pleasure as if she’d just found a smutty novel.

  Christine leaned over from her pillows at one point. “Don’t eat too much,” she whispered. “No blouse, we don’t want to show the bulgy tummy look. It’s not very erotic.”

  Alfonse nibbled now and then while the girls ate, but he took everything offered to drink. His bonhomie increased after two or three. He greeted and toasted every man who passed, got distracted by a cute girl at least a head shorter than Gabriela, then waved her off with a laugh when she whispered something in his ear. “No, no, I’ve got company already, see.”

  A trio of Germans stopped by who seemed to know Alfonse and they engaged in what sounded like good-natured banter. A topless girl hung onto one man’s arm, ran her fingers through his hair while he talked. She nibbled at his ear. There were love-bites on his neck.

  Alfonse laughed and waved his hand. “Nein, nein. Ich bin beschäftigt.”

  “No, you’re not busy,” Christine told Alfonse. “Go on, enjoy yourself. We’re not going anywhere.”

  “In that case, I’ll be back in a few. Just have to show these boasters how to play a good hand of Schafkopf.”

  “Where did you learn German, anyway?” Gabriel
a asked after Alfonse left with his friends.

  “Two years of horizontal German lessons.” Christine lifted her wine glass in a mock toast gesture. “Here’s to another ten. By then, my boobs will be too saggy to do this anymore.”

  “Horizontal collaboration, more like.” Gabriela looked around at the decadence of the Egyptienne. It seemed almost frantic in its defiance of the reality outside these doors. Hungry Frenchmen, Germans getting shipped off to the Eastern Front or bombed in their barracks by the Allies. “It’s going to get ugly if the Americans show up.”

  “Nah, the boches aren’t going anywhere. I mean, the Reich’s not going to last a thousand years, nobody believes that bullshit. But they’ll be here long after we’re toothless old hags begging centimes in front of Notre Dame.”

  “Let’s hope not.”

  “Oh, the Germans aren’t so bad. Big and dumb and gauche, but do you remember what it was like when the English were in town? No, probably not. The Germans are better behaved. And if the Americans ever came, it would be like ten thousand zazous in uniform. And this place? The only mistake I made was getting thrown out.” A wry laugh. “They heard about me at the One-Two-Two and the Sphinx, too. Nobody works harder than a whore looking for revenge. Five whores looking for revenge? I’ll take a Gestapo interrogation before I face that again.”

  “What happened?”

  “Oh, it was all my fault. A misunderstanding about a wealthy German officer, but I should have known better. He was spoken for.”

  A roar of laughter from the Germans near the piano interrupted Christine. One man, a brandy snifter in one hand and cigar in the other, stood on a chair and shouted something that brought cheers from the other Germans and tinkling laughter from the girls, most of whom seemed to be laughing along without understanding.

  When the hubbub died down, Christine’s mind had apparently turned elsewhere. “How is Alfonse? He can be generous, no?”

  “Yes, generous.” And brutal, in turns.