Clash by Night (A World War II Romantic Drama)

by Doreen Owens Malek

  CLASH BY NIGHT

  Doreen Owens Malek

  –

  Published by

  Gypsy Autumn Publications

  PO Box 383 • Yardley, PA 19067

  –

  Copyright 1988 and 2013

  by Doreen Owens Malek

  www.doreenowensmalek.com

  The Author asserts the moral right to be

  identified as author of this work

  All rights reserved. No part of this book, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews, may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, scanning or any information storage retrieval system, without explicit permission in writing from the Author or Publisher.

  First USA printing: February 1988

  All of the characters in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Table of Contents

  Dedication

  Part One

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Part Two

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Part Three

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Epilogue

  About the Author

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  Dedication

  For all those who died serving in the Résistance, with a note of thanks to my editor, Patricia Smith, and to my mother-in-law, Constance Malek, whose vivid recollection of her youth in occupied France formed the cornerstone of this book.

  Ah, love, let us be true

  To one another! for the world, which seems

  To lie before us like a land of dreams,

  So various, so beautiful, so new,

  Hath really neither joy, nor love, nor light,

  Nor certitude, nor peace, nor help for pain;

  And we are here as on a darkling plain

  Swept with confused alarms of struggle and flight,

  Where ignorant armies clash by night.

  from “DOVER BEACH”

  Matthew Arnold

  Part One:

  OCCUPATION

  Summer, 1940

  Chapter 1

  “They’ve taken Paris,” Laura said.

  Everyone stared at her. She was interpreting for the family the excited German issuing from the radio in staccato bursts.

  “Are you sure?” Alain demanded.

  “He says the troops are marching down the Champs Elysees,” Laura answered.

  “Oh, my God,” Brigitte moaned, turning away and putting her hands to her face. Henri, white and shaken, gazed into space. Alain cursed and stood abruptly, pacing the small front room.

  “It will be just like Belgium and Holland,” Brigitte whispered. “I saw it in the newsreels at the cinema. Rationing, labor camps, curfews, forcing Jews to register...”

  “We have to get out,” Alain said decisively.

  “And go where?” Laura asked incredulously. “You know what’s happened before: the Germans block the roads. There’s no escape.”

  “So we just sit here and do nothing?” Alain demanded angrily.

  He fell silent as the announcer changed and the new voice, panicked and breathless, began to speak in French. They all looked at the radio, a mahogany console, as if its dusty mesh screen and glowing semicircular dial contained the answers they sought. The news was all bad, and they listened fearfully until Alain cut off the flow of information by giving the dial a violent twist.

  “They’re hanging the Nazi flag in the Place de la Concorde,” he sneered, referring to the report they’d just heard. “Do you really think we’re going to stick around for more of this? Let’s pack.”

  His sister and his father stood immediately, glad of direction. Laura stared at her brother-in-law, shaking her head.

  “Are you coming with us?” he demanded impatiently.

  Laura sighed and rose also, because she didn’t know what else to do.

  * * *

  Laura glanced up at the cloudless sky. They had been on the road for two days now, camping out at night and eating what they’d brought along, huddling together in the face of impending disaster. Her father-in-law Henri trudged at her side, head down, leading his horse piled with personal effects. His daughter Brigitte, still wearing her student nurse’s uniform, marched dutifully, patient and obedient as always. And young Alain, headstrong, defiant, so like Laura’s husband, his brother, kept his hand on the knife secreted in the waistband of his pants, alert to any sign of the boche.

  Laura sighed and looked away, shifting the pack in her arms to a more comfortable position. She knew it was futile to run away, there was no place where the invaders could be escaped. But she didn’t want to be separated from her husband’s family. Ever since Thierry had been killed in the nine months of fighting which ended with France’s surrender, his people had become hers, the only remaining connection to the man she had loved and married. And just as she’d adopted his country, she adopted his relatives, feeling closer to them at this moment than she felt to the Randalls back in Boston.

  The sun was hot, and she wiped her brow with the back of her arm, wondering where they were going, if any of them knew. The urge was simply to move, to be gone, evacuate the area as the Germans spread like a stain, inching closer from all sides to overtake them. When Laura had seen that reason would not prevail she’d packed up like the rest, acceding, with atypical resignation, to the herding instinct which drove the terrified villagers out of their homes and onto the road.

  She heard a distant drone, and glanced over her shoulder in alarm, catching a glimpse of sunstruck wings and the dark bulk of aircraft moving overhead.

  “Get down!” she screamed, pulling Brigitte by the arm and tumbling them both into the ditch that bordered the dusty, unpaved lane. The Italian planes plunged lower, strafing the roadway, pelting the open field with a hail of bullets. Parents flung themselves on top of their children, men and women dove for what cover they could find as, prone and cowering, deafened by the crescendo of noise, they waited an eternity for the planes to pass. When it was finally over they straightened slowly and looked around dazedly, grateful to find themselves still alive.

  “Are you all right?” Laura asked Brigitte, who was pale and trembling, but seemingly unhurt.

  Brigitte nodded, struggling to her feet and moving through the crowd, remembering her training. Alain helped his father to stand and then shook a fist at the sky.

  “Bastards!” he spat, tears of rage standing in his eyes. “Cowards! I wish they’d come down out of those planes and fight me like men.”

  “You’ll get your chance, Alain,” Laura said sadly. “There are more than enough enemies to go around. This is only the beginning.” She followed Brigitte looking for the wounded, and discovered with relief that this time the injuries were only minor. The day before they had buried a two-year-old girl by the side of the road. The child’s little dog now trotted beside the numb and uncomprehending mother, looking for its mistress where she would never be found again.

  “How far have we come?” Laura asked Alain, joining him when the group was rea
dy to go on again. He handed her the heel of a baguette, indicating that it was the last of their bread. The food was running out fast; they would be chasing chickens in the fields before sunset.

  “About forty kilometers,” he answered.

  “Is that all?”

  He nodded. “And that was the easy part. The road gets rougher after this, it’ll slow us down.” Laura wanted to ask why they were hurrying but swallowed the question. She could understand that it was a capitulation, an admission of impotence, to sit in the house and wait for what would come. At least this way they could deceive themselves that they were doing something.

  A shout went up at the front of the column and for a moment Laura thought that the planes were returning. Then a more ominous stillness fell, and Alain, who was taller than most, shaded his eyes and looked into the distance, identifying the reason.

  “It’s the Germans,” he said tightly. “They’re here.”

  Then Laura could see them too, in a string of armored cars moving toward the massed villagers at a steady, measured pace. The townspeople, transfixed, watched helplessly as the vehicles advanced and finally parted in silence to admit the jeep carrying the commander.

  Alain’s hand went to his middle and Laura rounded on him.

  “Don’t be an idiot,” she hissed furiously. “This is no time for a show of heroism; accept it now and live to fight another day.”

  Alain subsided reluctantly, not even turning to look at her, his gaze fixed on the guns mounted at the back of the lead car. They were trained on the crowd, manned by foot soldiers in rounded pith helmets. An officer stood at the rear of the jeep, and all knew that he had only to give the order and the cannon would fire.

  But he said nothing for several long moments, scanning the assemblage with dark, hooded eyes. Laura was close enough to observe him critically. His hands were clasped behind his back and he surveyed the ragtag band of villagers with aloof, almost scholarly, interest, as if inspecting his battalion for a dress parade. He was perfectly erect, his peaked officer’s cap set at a precise angle, the metal appointments of his immaculate gray tunic glinting in the sun. Despite the heat his uniform greatcoat was thrown over his shoulders, and Laura could see the double bars on his stiff black collar, set against a teal green field. A colonel, then; this was no minor functionary who had stumbled onto their escaping caravan. But Laura would have known him for a ranking officer at a glance; he had an unmistakable air of authority about him that defied definition even as it commanded attention. He was an intimidating sight, for many of the onlookers the first German soldier they had ever seen.

  The colonel held out his hand, and a corporal at his side gave him a bullhorn. His gaze still raking the crowd, the colonel raised it to his lips.

  “I am Colonel Becker,” he announced in accented but correct French, “Commandant of the Reich installation for the Meuse. Go back to your homes. You will not be harmed.”

  The Frenchmen looked around warily. They hadn’t known exactly what to expect, but surely this wasn’t it. Go back to their homes? They weren’t going to be arrested, incarcerated, hauled off to a labor camp?

  Seeing their obvious confusion, Becker went on, “My men have food which they will distribute to you. When you have finished eating return in orderly fashion to your town.”

  Laura and Alain exchanged glances. They sensed a stirring in the crowd; quite a few of the people were hungry, none knew what to do.

  Aware of their uncertainty, Becker made a subtle gesture and two soldiers from the third car leapt to the ground. They removed large duffel bags from the back of their transport and began handing loaves of bread and wheels of cheese to the villagers. After a few moments’ hesitation the bolder souls among them grabbed the food and began to eat. Alain’s mouth tightened but Laura placed a restraining hand on his arm. The German’s eyes flickered over them, then moved on without changing expression. But he had seen; Laura felt the touch of that gaze like an icy finger against the nape of her neck.

  Becker lifted his hand again, and three of the soldiers abandoned their posts and began to move through the crowd, searching the men.

  Alain surrendered his knife with barely concealed frustration; again the colonel noticed him, then looked away. The travelers were offered dark beer from casks in one of the trucks, and drank thirstily, lost in the simple pleasure of filling their bellies. Becker waited until all had concluded their repast and then asked mildly, “Is there a leader among you?”

  Several heads turned toward Laura’s father-in-law Henri, who shrank visibly. Becker stared at him steadily until he was forced to step forward reluctantly, his eyes on the ground.

  “And you are?” Becker inquired, inclining his head slightly.

  “Henri Duclos,” Henri replied, his voice barely audible.

  “What is your function?”

  Henri seemed incapable of further speech. Panicked, he continued to look at his feet, and the silence lengthened dangerously until Laura interjected, “He is the mayor.”

  “The mayor of what?” Becker asked archly, glancing at her. His tone seemed to suggest that whatever the answer was it couldn’t be much.

  Laura met his gaze squarely. “Fains-les-Sources, the village just to the south of here.”

  “You are all from Fains?” Becker asked. It was clear he’d heard of it.

  “Yes.”

  He looked back at Henri, and bowed slightly, a hint of irony in the courtly gesture.

  “Henri Duclos, you will present yourself at 0900 hours Friday at my quarters. I will then detail your instructions. There is a hospital ahead, I am told?”

  “Yes,” Henri responded hoarsely, finding his voice again. “In Bar-le-Duc.”

  “How far is that?”

  “Four kilometers beyond Fains, on this road.”

  Becker nodded. “You will find me there.”

  He said something in German, and the driver inched the jeep forward, the crowd separating to let it pass. Becker looked directly ahead, oblivious to the locals, and the other vehicles followed his. The villagers watched the departing train until it was out of sight.

  “Pigs,” Alain said, spitting into the dirt. He alone had eaten nothing of the proffered food, and he glared after the Germans fixedly, as if he could still see them.

  “What do we do now?” Brigitte asked of her brother.

  “We go home,” Laura answered for him. “There’s nothing else to do.”

  “God, I wish Thierry were here,” Alain said fiercely, clenching his fingers and then relaxing them, his whole body tensed for action.

  “So do I,” Laura responded softly, looking at Henri. The older man turned away, avoiding the reference to his dead son.

  Several of the men in the group were already turning around to go back they way they had come, and the rest followed suit wearily. Laura helped Henri reverse the direction of his horse and then brought up the rear, wondering how long it would take them to get back to Fains. And what the town would be like when they got there. The Germans would reach Bar-le-Duc that afternoon and be waiting for them.

  The trip home was slowed by the continuing influx of foreign troops; Becker’s company had been the first they’d seen, but it was by no means the last. The road was clogged with vehicles as the cars and trucks of the invading forces took precedence over the foot traffic of the French. It was late Wednesday when the Duclos family arrived back at their home, exhausted and apprehensive. The German flag was flying from the post office in Fains, and an armored patrol car cruised the streets at a leisurely pace, alerting the citizens to its presence. The main contingent of the military had passed on to the hospital at Bar-le-Duc. One could almost pretend that nothing had happened, until surprised by the sudden appearance of a staff jeep on the street or the sound of a guttural command. But the Germans were only settling in as yet; in a few days their presence would be more keenly felt.

  On the morning after their return Laura was alone in the kitchen. She shoveled coal into the bottom of th
e stove and pumped water into the black kettle, putting it at the back of the iron cover to heat. Alain had already left for his job at the glass factory. Brigitte was back at the student nurse’s dormitory and Henri was still sleeping upstairs. Things had almost a semblance of normalcy, but she had only to look out the window to discern that those appearances were deceiving. A column of soldiers was conducting a drill on the main street; she was to learn that this performance would be repeated at the same time every day, a little demonstration of military might designed to intimidate the populace. Laura drew the curtains and turned away.

  She made her tea and sat at the scrubbed deal table, sipping and thinking, trying to ignore the rhythmic thud of booted feet in the street outside the house.

  She had arrived in France at twenty, an American exchange student at the university at Nancy. There she met and fell in love with Thierry Duclos, the older son of Henri Duclos, mayor of Fains-les-Sources. Over the strenuous objections of her parents Laura, always headstrong and now in love, married Thierry as soon as he received his degree. They returned to Fains together, where Thierry took up his position as the manager of the glassworks, the town’s only industry. They had lived in his widowed father’s house, along with Alain and Brigitte, until the invasion of Poland by Germany in September of 1939. When France declared war on Germany two days later, Thierry had been one of the first to enlist. He didn’t last long, and Laura had been devastated by his loss.

  She thought now about those initial days without him, a time shrouded in her memory by a dull haze of pain. Her parents, concerned with the worsening situation in Europe, had flooded her with mail pleading for her to return to America. But she had wanted to stay where she’d been so happy with Thierry, and where she felt needed. So she had continued to bicycle the two miles to work every weekday, passing the hospital where Brigitte was a student nurse. She kept busy with her job, virtually running the school in Bar-le-Duc with most of the men away in the war, until the invasion of Paris had thrown all their lives into chaos.