Clash by Night (A World War II Romantic Drama)

by Doreen Owens Malek

  Philippe didn’t look happy but he did as he was told.

  “Claude,” the woman barked, and the other boy jumped.

  “Take off your shirt and give it to me.”

  “But if he gets arrested they’ll pull us in too, for helping him,” Claude protested in a fierce whisper.

  “Coward!” she spat.

  Claude, terrified and ashamed of himself at the same time, stripped off his outer shirt and handed her the garment with shaking hands.

  “Give me your things and put this on,” she said to Alain.

  Alain removed his damp black turtleneck and hat and slipped into the cotton shirt, rolling it to his elbows. The ache in his ankle receded, numbed into quiescence by the opiate of fear.

  “Now, Claude, calm down,” the woman said, putting her hand on the boy’s shoulder. “You have to be strong. Take these extra pitchers inside to Philippe. Keep quiet and no one will know anything is happening, right?”

  Claude nodded, licking his lips, and picked up the pitchers of beer.

  He elbowed through the door carrying them, wearing only his Tshirt, looking as if he were headed for the guillotine.

  Alain picked up the spatula Claude had abandoned and turned the omelet he’d been tending. The old lady took Alain’s discarded clothes and stuffed them in the bottom of a storage chest near the stove, tossing a variety of kitchen items on top of them. She moved with the speed and agility of a much younger person, but Alain didn’t have time to be amazed. She had just dropped the lid of the chest when the service door opened and two German soldiers entered the room.

  Alain froze in place as the omelet stuck to the pan. He came out of his trance in time to save it from burning, but his impersonation of a cook left something to be desired. He moved the pan from the heat and waited tensely for the blow to fall.

  One of the two soldiers was an officer, a major. He said curtly, in the bastardized French most of them used, “Do you both work here?”

  The woman answered. “Yes, sir,” she said meekly. “I’m the cook and this boy is my helper.”

  “Have you been here all night?”

  “Yes, sir,” she responded piously, her aged face the quintessence of innocence.

  Alain shoved his wet and muddy shoes further under the counter.

  “You, boy,” the major said.

  Alain looked up, his blood thrumming loudly in his veins. He was sweating so profusely the perspiration was running down his legs beneath his pants.

  “Is this the only entrance to the kitchen?” the German asked.

  Alain went blank. He had no idea.

  Behind the Germans the old lady was nodding her head vigorously, her eyes wide.

  “Yes, sir,” Alain said, swallowing.

  The Major stalked through the kitchen to the dining room door and pushed through it, his companion following behind him.

  Alain and the woman exchanged glances, inexpressibly relieved.

  The group inside switched to a Bavarian hunting song. The two in the kitchen could hear the revelers banging their steins in unison on the tables.

  “Swine,” the old lady said contemptuously. “When I cook for them I spit in their omelets.”

  Alain grinned, delighted.

  Claude returned from the dining room, as white as altar linen.

  “They’ve gone,” he murmured. He looked ready to faint.

  Alain threw his arms around the old woman’s neck and kissed her cheek. She disengaged herself, embarrassed, and went to a cabinet, taking out a bottle of sauterne. She poured two inches of the yellow liquid into a glass.

  “It’s only cooking wine but it will have to do,” she said, handing Claude the drink. “Swallow it, you look like you need it.” She patted his cheek smartly. “Buck up, boy, it’s all over. We won this match for Team France.”

  “Do you think they’ll come back?” Claude asked, looking at Alain.

  “I doubt it. They’re out scurrying through the streets, turning over every rock,” Alain replied.

  “You work with others?” Giselle asked Alain.

  He hesitated, then nodded.

  “If you need help again,” she said conspiratorially, “let me know. I work here and live in the rooms on the second floor.”

  Alain smiled. She was thrilled by their adventure and her successful part in it, and she had proved herself trustworthy.

  “Our name is Vipére,” Alain whispered into her ear, pressing her hand. “Remember us, grandmother. Our time will come.”

  Giselle produced a key from the deep front pocket of her skirt. “Go out the back and up the stairs to my apartment. You can sleep there until curfew ends in the morning. After all this we can’t have you picked up now.”

  Alain embraced her once more and then did as she suggested. He waited at the back door until he was sure the alley was deserted, and then climbed the rickety wooden staircase to Giselle’s door. Once inside, he collapsed, exhausted and emotionally spent. He stretched out on the overstuffed sofa in her tiny front room and fell asleep almost instantly.

  In the morning he woke to find the bedroom door closed and assumed that Giselle was asleep behind it. He saw by his watch that it was late enough to go abroad in the streets. He was heading for the door when he found a note from his hostess. It lay on the rickety table in the old fashioned kitchenette, propped against a wicker breadbasket.

  “Have breakfast,” it said. “Take anything you want.” And to it was pinned her ration card. “Bon Pour un Repas” (good for one meal) had unchecked spaces next to three of the sequential numbers. She had been saving up her allotments and was giving them to him.

  Alain shook his head in wonderment. So many people wanted to help. Even old ladies were willing to sacrifice food itself for the cause. He put the card back and instead took a roll from the basket on the table. Stashing it inside his shirt, he went out into the bright morning and cantered down the stairs.

  The soldiers moving in the street and the people hurrying to work didn’t give him a second glance. He blended in with the flow of humanity so well that he ceased to worry about the previous night. He walked past rows of shopkeepers opening for the day, rolling up their blinds and sweeping the walks in front of their stores. Alain jammed his hands in his pockets and strolled along, lost in his thoughts.

  And his thoughts concerned Harris. Alain couldn’t dispute that the marine’s presence had been invaluable. He’d planned the raid on the factory with admirable efficiency and precision. He’d given Vipère all the information the Americans had from aerial photographs concerning the German installations in France. Before he left home Harris had memorized long lists of bases and targets, the location of transformer stations and oil storage tanks. Curel had written it all down, determined to pass it on where it would do the most good. Harris had also given the men a crash course in the undercover strategies he’d studied in preparation for the mission. They’d learned the best methods of sabotage and subterfuge, the use of weaponry and explosives, and were now well prepared to carry on without Harris when he left.

  All of which didn’t make Alain like him any better. The guy was an arrogant, bossy loner, better at telling people what to do for ten hours than listening to anybody else for one minute. Alain knew that aloof, masterful act Harris adopted; he’d used it himself often enough with creditable success. The trouble was Alain had thought it only worked on sixteen-year-old girls and couldn’t believe that Laura was falling for it.

  She looked at Harris like he was Lafayette. Why? Because he jumped out of planes? Big deal, a hard push and a long fall and you hit the ground on a roll. It didn’t sound like much to him. And he could tell that Harris loved Laura’s adulation. He didn’t do anything overt to indicate it, in fact he was very reticent where Laura was concerned, but Alain was sensitive to everything that involved his sister-in-law and he could tell.

  Harris wanted Laura, as much as he tried not to show it. And in his subtle, accomplished way he was moving in on her. Alain saw the slow,
lazy smile the marine used to seal the two Americans off from the rest of the group. Harris was isolating Laura with the force of his charm as surely as a border collie cut the prize lamb from the rest of the flock. And he was doing it with the unconcerned ease of a pro.

  Alain didn’t think the marine’s casual posture was as natural as it appeared. He was putting on a show for Laura. He stood around smoking cigarettes down to the stub like Humphrey Bogart in the American films, talking through a drifting haze in that husky, intense voice, impressing everybody with what a rough, tough self contained hero he was. Everybody except Alain.

  The boy scuffed the toe of a shoe in the verge along the road to Fains, pulling out Giselle’s roll. He summarily dismissed the irksome subject of the American pilot as he took a big bite and surveyed the passing traffic, hoping to hitch a ride. About halfway home he saw a local farmer going by and jumped into the back of his wagon. He reached the Duclos house just as Laura was making breakfast with Brigitte.

  Laura turned from the stove as he came through the back door, almost dropping the fork she held.

  “You’re back,” she gasped, running to greet him. “I was sure they’d grabbed you.”

  Alain shook his head. “I’m all right.”

  “What happened?” Laura asked.

  He winked. “We got it.”

  Laura laughed and hugged him.

  “Got what?” Brigitte asked from her seat at the table, looking from one to the other.

  Laura and Alain exchanged glances.

  “What are you doing home?” Alain asked his sister.

  “I’m due in for the afternoon shift,” Brigitte said. “What’s going on?”

  “We might as well tell her,” Laura said in a low tone. “She’ll have to know sooner or later.”

  Alain said nothing.

  “Alain,” Laura persisted.

  “All right,” he said, turning away and surveying what Laura had been about to put in the pan. “Bacon?” he said in surprise.

  “Pierre cured it himself last year and they didn’t know about it,” Laura explained. The Germans had “requisitioned” most of the best provender but this rasher had escaped their notice.

  “I’m waiting,” Brigitte said patiently. She had more than an inkling of what she was about to hear.

  “We’ve got an American in Pierre’s barn,” Laura said baldly. “He’s a marine, we’re hiding him.”

  “An American marine?” Brigitte whispered. This was even worse than she had imagined. “Why?”

  “He came to help us blow up the glass plant,” Alain said. “The Germans are converting it to manufacture munitions and we’re going to destroy it before they can use it.”

  Brigitte’s expression reflected her opinion of this plan. “Oh, my God,” she breathed, standing up. “Have you both gone crazy?”

  Alain glared at her, his eyes hostile. “No, we haven’t,” he said coldly, “but maybe you have.”

  Brigitte stared back at him and Laura looked on with concern, unsure of what he was about to say.

  “My sources tell me that you have a new friend,” Alain said quietly to his sister.

  Brigitte didn’t move.

  Alain nodded. “You know who I mean. That pretty German corporal, Becker’s boy—Hesse , am I right?”

  Laura turned back to the stove. So that was it.

  “Your ‘sources,’” Brigitte said evenly, obviously trying to keep her temper, “your spies, you mean. Who? Gaston, that clerk in the supply room at the hospital? Or Reneau, that annoyance of an orderly? He’s just jealous because...” she stopped abruptly.

  “Yes,” Alain said quickly, springing the trap. “Because you prefer that boche to him! And anybody else, the way I hear it.”

  “You have no right to set people on me, have them follow me around!” Brigitte flared.

  “I have to keep an eye on my sister,” Alain said smoothly. “And you’ve been making such a spectacle of yourself no one had to bother following you around. From the information I’m getting you seem to need a keeper.”

  “So you have to watch everyone I speak to?” Brigitte demanded.

  “That boche is your enemy!” Alain shouted, slamming his palm to the table. “Your enemy, and mine.”

  “Everyone is your enemy these days!” Brigitte responded hotly. “Everyone but your sneaky pack of watchdogs.”

  “Alain,” Laura said in a cautionary tone. This was not the way to handle the situation.

  “Stay out of this,” he said curtly to Laura. He advanced on Brigitte.

  “What is it?” he demanded. “His lovely yellow curls? His handsome uniform? Do they make you forget who he is?”

  “I remember who he is,” she murmured. “Better than you know.”

  “How sweet,” Alain said sarcastically. “Trouble in paradise? I hope?”

  “You’re not funny, Alain,” Brigitte said, her eyes filling with tears.

  Laura interposed her body between Alain’s and Brigitte’s.

  “Leave her alone,” she said firmly to the boy.

  “Oh, fine,” Alain said, throwing up his hands. “You take her part. First my father and now my sister. I ought to just open a little gasthof here where the boche can stop by and put up their feet, have some schnapps, a bite to eat. We could serve wiener schnitzel and sauerbraten, sachertorte for dessert, make them feel right at home. And my beloved sister could ply her trade, take them upstairs for some additional, physical refreshment...”`

  Laura slapped him, and Brigitte sobbed aloud.

  Alain put his hand to his face, his eyes blazing.

  “Are you on her side?” he demanded, turning red with rage.

  “Let’s simply say that I’m not on yours,” Laura retorted coolly. “This kind of scene never solves anything.”

  “She’s consorting with a German!” Alain accused, pointing his finger at Brigitte.

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” Laura snapped. “She’s not ‘consorting’ with anybody.” She turned to Brigitte. “Exactly what has Alain heard?” she asked the younger girl.

  “I don’t know what he’s heard, but I can tell you what happened. I just talked to Kurt a few times and...”

  “Kurt, is it?” Alain interjected. “On a first name basis already? Charming.”

  “Will you be quiet?” Brigitte said to her brother. “Nothing has happened between him and me.”

  “Not yet,” Alain rejoined darkly. Then he surveyed his sister with a calculating eye and added, “Or are you smarter than I think?”

  “What do you mean?” Brigitte asked him nervously.

  “If he likes you, he might talk, and some of that information could be very useful to us...” Alain said softly, his tone heavy with implication.

  Brigitte’s delicate jaw line hardened. “I won’t do that.”

  “Oh, forgive me,” Alain said with exaggerated contrition. “Far be it from me to suggest that you serve your country by compromising your high moral principles.”

  “Kurt’s only a corporal, he doesn’t know anything,” Brigitte said defensively.

  “He’s Becker’s aide!” Alain countered. “He’s in the commandant’s office all the time, has access to all the orders and communiqués. Becker trusts him or he wouldn’t keep him on the job.”

  “He’d never tell me anything important.”

  “He might let something slip if you pay attention to every word he says. And that shouldn’t be too hard. I’m told he follows you around like a rabbit who’s caught the scent.”

  “You’re disgusting,” Brigitte announced, turning her back on him dismissively.

  “Think about it,” Alain said slyly, walking past her to leave the room.

  “Aren’t you going to have breakfast?” Laura called after him.

  “I’m too tired to eat, I’m going to bed,” Alain replied, and they heard him ascending the stairs.

  Brigitte resumed her seat at the table, her expression thoughtful.

  Her natural disinclination to use
anyone warred with her desire to help Alain’s cause. It was true; Kurt already liked her. It wouldn’t be difficult to ask seemingly innocent questions, listen and report…

  “Don’t let him upset you too much,” Laura said to Brigitte, dropping the strips of bacon into the pan. “He’s just frustrated, nothing is happening fast enough to suit him. He wants all the Germans gone yesterday and every morning he wakes up and they’re still here.”

  “Aren’t you going to ask me about Kurt?” Brigitte said.

  “That’s your business,” Laura replied crisply. “I know you wouldn’t do anything disloyal. And so does your brother.”

  “You couldn’t tell that by listening to him,” Brigitte said wearily.

  “That was just his way of letting off steam. He was involved in something very dangerous last night and I think he just scraped out of it by a hair. He was probably scared, if you want to know the truth, and taking it out on you.”

  “You always defend him,” Brigitte said, smiling slightly.

  “He reminds me so much of his brother,” Laura replied quietly.

  Brigitte nodded slowly. Then she remembered how the previous conversation had started and said, “Tell me about this marine you’re hiding.”

  Laura paused in the act of turning the strips of bacon. “When is your father due back?” she asked Brigitte.

  “Not for a couple of hours. What does the American look like?”

  Laura thought for a moment, and then answered, as if talking to herself, “He looks like the guy my mother warned me about when I was thirteen.”

  Brigitte stared at her blankly.

  Laura shrugged. “He’s tall, with dark hair and blue eyes.”

  “How long has he been here?”

  “Several weeks.”

  Brigitte shuddered. “You’re taking a terrible chance.”

  “It will be worth it.”

  “I hope so.” Brigitte leaned forward as Laura removed the bacon from the pan and set it on newspapers to drain. “Is he loud and jovial, like Steve Perkins?” she persisted.

  Steve Perkins had been a classmate of Laura’s and Thierry’s at the University, and was the only other American Brigitte had ever met.