Trophy for Eagles

by Boyne, Walter J.

  His other, but unacknowledged, hobby managed the best local auberge, Le Montespan, with her husband. In his youth, Elisabeth and he had been tempestuous lovers; now they were very good friends who sometimes still managed a loving hour together.

  He rubbed the back of his legs. The wounds that truly pained him were not from German shrapnel, but from the German machine guns that had killed his oldest son, Alexandre. The second son, Robert, had died in a stupid accident, crushed when a farm wagon turned over on him. It had nothing to do with the Germans, except that if there had been no war, no invasion, Robert would have been away at school and not working in the fields like a navvy, available for the accident, and things would be different now.

  There was a knock at the door. He quickly checked to make sure the book was back in its hiding place, then let Stephan in.

  He poured his son a drink from a less precious bottle. Stephan didn't want it, but knew better than to refuse.

  "Papa, we have rooms for everyone, except the one American, Mr. Roehlk. Can we put him up at the inn?"

  "But of course. But why not the same with this Rhoades fellow? Is he a member of the family?"

  "No, but he is apparently Captain Hafner's confidant; Mrs. Hafner requested that he stay with us if at all possible."

  "Let's put the Boche in the inn as well. He can stink up their bedrooms instead of ours. I never believed I would see the day when a live German would be in my house." He paused for a moment, nose deep in the glass, pulling the soul of the Armagnac deep into his lungs. You could get drunk just smelling this, he thought. He looked up in horror. "I never believed that I would be related to one, even by marriage."

  "Papa!" Stephan's tone was sharp. "You only have to put up with him for a few days. Do it for my sake, for Patty's sake."

  Pierre Dompnier drank the Armagnac, and poured himself another from the lesser bottle. He offered the bottle to Stephan, who shook his head.

  "And what dowry does the Boche bring? Has he any money?"

  Stephan laughed. "He has plenty of money, but no one has ever discussed a dowry. I think they feel Patty and I must marry, as we have . . ;" He paused, trying to soften the idea. "As we have spent so much time together."

  "Probably linens and some furniture. The rich don't get rich by giving it away." He looked sharply at Stephan. "And how do you feel about this man? He may have killed your comrades!"

  Stephan shrugged. "Yes, he may even have killed Patty's father. But he was just doing a job, as I was. Somewhere in Germany there are eight families whose sons I killed. I'm not proud of it, I would not want to see them, but I would not wish them to hate me, either."

  They walked together down the cool hallways, so familiar to him, unchanged since his youth. Papa was the easy one, going off to lie down and burn away the Armagnac. Now he had to talk to his mother.

  She was sitting in her bedroom, the wooden shutters closed, a shawl over her head, crying softly. He looked at her before he spoke. She was totally in black, her dress relieved not even by a nun's white collar. Her face seemed to sink within the folds of her shawl, from which, like a child in a Munch painting, some terrible silent cry of pain, inaudible but palpable, eternally screamed.

  "Maman, you must pull yourself together. You must be able to greet Patty and her family, and be gracious to her. If not, I'll leave tonight, and we'll have only a civil ceremony in Paris."

  It was necessarily cruel. The thought of marriage outside the church—marriage in which they might lose control of any grandchildren—was unthinkable.

  "They'll be here this afternoon. No more of this nonsense. Get yourself dressed, get out of those mourning clothes, have your hair fixed, do whatever you have to do. But be gracious!"

  She sobbed and nodded, her hands flying around the rosary.

  When Stephan left, Antoinette Dompnier pulled a tablet out from the drawer in her table. On the top page was a numbered list, in her precise handwriting, of all that had to be done, running from "(1) Contact Father Closterman" to "(27) Arrange with Sassard for the cake." On the following pages, in the same sequence, she had listed the status of each project. Most had check marks on the front page, signifying that they were completed. The only major things that remained were the final fittings of the dresses for Monique and herself and confirming the entertainment. Stephan had said something about this Hafner fellow, this German, helping with the entertainment. She muttered to herself, "Perhaps his wife will dance."

  She was glad that Stephan had been completely open. The bride's mother had been married to an American flyer, apparently, and before that had been a chorus girl! And the stepfather, a Boche flyer himself! A fine combination for in-laws, wealthy or not.

  She returned to the list, pleased that enough was finished that she would have time to pray, to strengthen herself to endure what must be done.

  They had so little money, and so much to do. She had driven Monique unmercifully, somehow forced Pierre to help, and then enlisted the aid of old Debre in the distillery to do the rest.

  Now she was content. It would be a perfect wedding, befitting their family and the house. And then, she knew, it would be time to move. That old rogue Pierre thought he had fooled her all these years with his fumbling with Elisabeth down at the inn, with his mortgages, with his drinking. They were now hopelessly in debt, but their son would have married. Poor Monique; she was un-marriageable, and she would have to survive on her own.

  Back in his room, Stephan took a tumbler of cognac and two tablets, and threw himself on his bed. It was stupid to have returned, to think that he could add anything to their lives. They should have had a civil marriage in Paris, and let it go at that. Now they had to endure God knew what. Patty was worth it all, he told himself. She was worth it all. And perhaps she was pregnant!

  The last thirty minutes of the train ride had not been pleasant for anyone. Patty had asked all four of them—Bruno, Charlotte, Dusty, and Murray—to sit in her compartment while she lectured them.

  "Bruno, the French are not like the Americans. They will not be delighted that you dined with the Kaiser and were an ace. So don't talk about that. And don't talk about how smart you were about the stock market. Just say pleasant things about the house and the weather."

  Bruno shifted his bulk and looked at her in pained surprise.

  "As you wish, Patty. I'm sorry that you have such a poor opinion of me."

  "And your mother," Charlotte bristled.

  Patty ignored her, saying, "Please don't make any risque jokes, even in English. They understand more than they speak. Please, please, watch your language. Madame Dompnier is very religious."

  Charlotte's color went from vermilion to umber, and her lips worked.

  Bruno smiled, and Charlotte snapped at him, "Stop smiling, Bruno. You're the one who is a problem."

  To Dusty and Murray, Patty said simply, "Help me."

  Stephan met the train with a Renault seven-passenger sedan, so ancient its blue-black paint was crackled like dried mud. But it had acres of running board and a huge platform in the rear for the baggage. He embraced Patty and shook hands with the others.

  "Mr. Roehlk, I'm sorry, but my father's place is small, and I have made arrangements for you at the inn."

  "Suits me, Stephan." Murray used the term "Mister" only with Bruno. He preferred the inn—he could do what he wished, and perhaps find some mademoiselles.

  Apprehension mounting, Stephan managed to hold Patty's hand and still point out the sights in Orleans as he drove out the road to the Dompnier estate. When he had left, his mother had still been sitting in her room, and his father had been stumbling toward his liquor cabinet.

  Stephan whispered to Patty, "I'm not sure how this is going to go. If there is a problem, we'll go back to Paris tonight."

  She nodded, concerned with her own family and their friends. She couldn't imagine why Charlotte had insisted on Dusty's staying at the house with them—or rather she could, but then she couldn't understand why Bruno would put up with
it.

  Bruno was quiet, and Charlotte was clearly impressed by the countryside. Rhoades slept in the corner of the car, and Murray drummed his hands nervously, anxious to get to the inn and have a drink.

  Stephan wheeled the big Renault into the road leading to the house, Murray eagerly leaping out to open and close the gate in the stone fence. Stephan drove up the curved drive, flanked on both sides by an enormous double row of trees, the inner the poplars that march across France, the outer the inevitable chestnuts. When they reached the covered porte cochere, the family was assembled like servants greeting a returning master. In the front, smiling and waving handkerchiefs, were Monique and their mother. Behind them, in his major's uniform, was their father, smiling from ear to ear.

  Stephan jammed on the brakes. He couldn't believe it, not the uniform, bulging as it was from the accumulated cognac of the years. Patty's eyebrows rolled up like burst window shades, and Charlotte sucked in her breath and reached for Bruno's hand as he leaped from the car in an apparent fury.

  At the edge of the stairs, Hafner stopped and drew himself up to his full height, looking squarely at Pierre Dompnier. Then he saluted. Pierre returned the salute, and the two stood for a moment eyeing each other. Stephan was going to begin the introductions when the two groups coalesced into a series of laughing embraces.

  Monique, as demure as a nun, had settled Patty in the end room, buffered from Stephan's room by her own and the larger suite she had given Charlotte and Bruno. She put Rhoades at the other end of the hall. He tripped twice going up the winding set of uneven stairs to a room in the tower, its ceiling plaster just redone, moisture already showing from the leaking cistern above.

  Charlotte was busy unpacking.

  "Bruno, I'm proud of you. The salute was a masterstroke!"

  "You always underestimate me, Charlotte—in business, in bed, everywhere."

  The old liquid stirrings coursed and she said, "Never in bed."

  Monique carried a glass in her apron, just as her father did in his jacket. His was for Armagnac, hers was for listening, and she pressed it against the wall and smiled. This wedding might not be so dull after all.

  Madame and Monique had outdone themselves with dinner. It had started with oysters, served with a cold dry Sancerre that even Murray liked. Foie gras followed, glistening on a bed of truffles. Debre, the sole remaining workman of the distillery, had shot the deer and hung it, and the haunch of venison was perfect, accompanied as it was by a ruby Chateau Margaux.

  After coffee, Pierre insisted on taking Bruno down into his cellar to show off his collection of brandies. Charlotte, Patty, and Madame Dompnier sat in the formal living room, while Dusty and Monique drove Murray back to the inn.

  Hafner and Pierre, with the Dompnier hound, Edouard, at their feet, sat down at the table, a round of wood placed on the barrel. Bruno scratched Edouard behind the ears, and soon had his head on his lap, eyes closed in contentment.

  "I think you will like this."

  He pulled the half-emptied 1813 Armagnac out and poured two crystal balloon glasses one-quarter full. Then he took a second bottle of the same and sat it meaningfully in the middle of the table.

  "A votre sante."

  "Prosit!"

  Bruno almost bolted the liquor down, Prussian-fashion. He caught himself, and took a long time savoring the aroma, before taking a tiny sip to roll around his mouth.

  "This is superb, the best I've ever tasted."

  They drank in appreciative silence for a while until, beaming, Dompnier poured again, precisely one quarter of the glass.

  "It must warm and breathe—it lives."

  They talked first of the weather, then of their families and of the lost sons. Bruno's brother had been killed, and he could say in truth he knew what Stephan and his father had suffered.

  Dompnier apologized for what he called "this sad remnant of a great estate."

  He filled the glasses and moaned, "We were not aristocrats, but we had the wherewithal of aristocrats. We had vineyards, and an import-export firm, and even part of a bank in Paris. Now . . ." He put his hands palms up at his side.

  "Ach, the war cost both of our families then! My brother was killed in Italy, of all places, helping out the Austrians at Caporetto. And after the war—zut, we lost it all, house, factory, hunting lodge, everything."

  Pierre, his alcohol thermostat undone by the champagne before dinner, the wines during, and now the Armganac after, felt his eyes tear. This man was a brother, a German brother!

  They talked of the stupidity of war.

  "And the stupidest of all was the Versailles Treaty!"

  Hafner looked up, amazed.

  "We should never have done that to Germany. What happened to us after 1873, the crazy need for revenge, will happen to you. It's already happening. The Nazis won more than a hundred seats in the last election!"

  Hafner watched him closely. This man was no fool.

  They were drinking seriously now, no longer extending the pleasure of the Armagnac with the customary care. Dompnier briefly considered switching to another year; he was sure that Hafner could not tell the difference. He decided against it; the dowry was surely going to be discussed.

  The first bottle was gone, and Dompnier opened the second, the wax protecting the cork as hard and brittle as ice. He tossed the cork in the corner, and said, "Please call me Pierre. And may I call you Bruno?"

  They embraced, and filled the glasses. Bruno asked about the abandoned warehouse in the south.

  "It is in good condition, but there is no use for it. It has about ten thousand square meters under roof, and there is a railway spur and a quai. But there is nothing to buy or to sell. Nor will anybody make an offer on it. But the taxes are low, and I will keep it as long as I can.

  Even with his brain laden with the very best brandy he had ever drunk, Hafner realized that he could do good business with this man. He had a sense of family—and he needed money.

  "Pierre, is it a French custom for the two fathers to discuss the dowry in private?"

  The word poured into Dompnier's ears as melodiously as the Armagnac cascaded into his glass.

  "I believe so, Bruno. It is not an issue, of course. We are so delighted that Stephan has found someone he loves, someone so beautiful."

  "Yes, of course. But I am concerned that they have a good start in life. I don't want them to have to work as hard as you and I have had to do since the war."

  They drank in respect to their work and their worth.

  "My wife cautioned me about a subject, but I feel I must mention it to you. May we talk frankly?"

  Pierre nodded, not daring to speak.

  "Unlike most others, we were helped rather than hurt by the stock-market disaster. We wish to be generous."

  "I'm glad I discussed my own situation before this. We may not be able to match your generosity. Madame Dompnier—Antoinette—will be very sensitive about this. She would not wish to have our misfortune underlined for the world to see."

  Charlotte lay in her bed, wondering if Bruno was all right. The talks with Madame Dompnier had gone wonderfully well, the wedding plans were perfect. The house showed that they had refinished it just for the wedding. She wondered how they could afford it. Patty had apologized for not knowing what entertainment Bruno planned, and Madame had gone along with it. Charlotte shifted uneasily. She hoped it was not a German military band.

  There was a shuffling at the door. She opened it a crack and found Bruno slumped against it, dead drunk. As she had many times before, she let him put his arm around her and began to carry him in. Out of the corner of her eye, at the end of the hallway, she saw Monique scurrying up the stairs to Dusty's room.

  Antoinette and Pierre had long had their own rooms, separated by a huge bathroom installed just before the war. She heard him there, being violently ill.

  Serves him right, she thought.

  The retching sounds continued, then subsided. She didn't hear him leave. Perhaps the old fool had ch
oked to death. He would, to ruin the wedding if nothing else.

  As she rose to check on him, the door opened and Pierre came in, dark face a roasted-pepper red from his exertions, his legs unsteady, but smiling.

  "My dear. Everything is going to be all right. A miracle has happened." He explained nothing, but turned and lurched back down the hall to his own room, weaving from side to side.

  As she crawled back into bed, she muttered, "The miracle was that he didn't choke."

  *

  Orleans, France/December 18, 1930

  Charlotte and Madame Dompnier had made the joint discovery on the morning of the sixteenth. Their husbands were gone. A note on the kitchen table said that they would return late the following day.

  No one had any idea what it meant, but all were comfortable with the breathing space, particularly Charlotte and Dusty, after he had undergone some pretty close questioning about Monique. In the end Charlotte pretended to believe that Monique had gone to his room only to be sure that he was comfortable.

  Murray Roehlk was totally disconsolate. Bruno had gone with the senior Dompnier in the big Renault, and had not said a word to him. There had been no mademoiselles worth looking at in the inn, or in any place he had walked to in the town. He stayed away from the Dompniers, for fear of Monique. She had propositioned him yesterday morning, and been quite piqued when he had backed away.

  It was not that she was unattractive. It was because she would be related to the Hafners by marriage, and he could not be disrespectful to Charlotte. So he sat on his bed, as short and square as himself, staring into the flames of the little fireplace, drinking cognac, and wishing that he were back home in the States, where his tightly controlled fantasies of Charlotte could be acted out in the Jersey brothels he patronized. Yet even in his adoration of her, he was realistic. He knew that she was a wild-ass, screwing half the guys at Roosevelt Field, and maybe taking care of a few others on the side that he didn't know about. He'd been relieved when she had settled down with Dusty. Murray somehow didn't mind that he didn't exist for her except as Hafner's errand boy, for she, the most beautiful woman in the world, had always been pleasant to him. He was in love with her, and would always be, and if he would never kiss her in real life, he had made love to her every time he screwed another woman. He was inured to the jokes made by the practiced whores he bedded; they kidded him about his intensity, his insistence that they say nothing. He kept his eyes closed and his imagination open, and it was always Charlotte in bed with him. In its own way it was a perfect relationship, for he could never tire of her, nor she of him.