Clash by Night (A World War II Romantic Drama)

by Doreen Owens Malek

  He couldn’t help comparing her with Lysette. Elise was a sexual athlete, accomplished, inventive. But there was something she always seemed to lack, tenderness maybe, and he had felt it in Lysette the moment he touched her.

  Elise looked upon sex as a means to an end: pleasure, children, the relaxation into sleep. She disliked kissing, had turned her head away the first few times Becker had tried to capture her mouth with his during lovemaking. In contrast Lysette had opened her lips under his as if he had a gift to place between them. Her guileless vulnerability, especially in view of her history, had roused in him emotions long dormant, indeed he’d thought long dead. For all her almost virginal shyness Lysette had given him more in one night than his wife, with her skilled gymnastics, ever had.

  When he turned back to the room Lysette was sitting up, watching him.

  “I didn’t mean to wake you,” he said, slipping back under the cover and enfolding her again. She curled against him like a puppy.

  “You didn’t.”

  “Are you all right?” he murmured.

  “Yes.” She put her head back and tried to see his face. “How old are you?” she asked.

  He smiled slightly, tucking the blanket around her. “Forty.”

  She reached up and traced the lines bracketing his mouth, touched the gray at his temples. “I thought you were older.”

  His smile widened. “Do I look like such an antique?”

  “Not so much that, but your position. Your rank.”

  His smile faded. “I was ambitious and successful in my younger years.” He smoothed the curve of her spine with the palm of his hand. “And how old are you, liebchen?” he asked in turn.

  “Thirty-two.”

  He nodded slowly. “We’ll have to be more careful next time.”

  A flush of happiness spread over her pale skin. There would be a next time. Secure in that knowledge she said, “You don’t have to worry. I can’t have children.”

  He looked down at her. “But you are young still. Why not?”

  “I was pregnant once, and my husband...he...”

  “Beat you?” Becker suggested in a dangerously quiet voice.

  “Yes, and later in the hospital they said I couldn’t ever have children after that.”

  “If he comes back here I’ll kill him for you,” Becker said evenly, as if offering to pass her a slice of bread.

  “He won’t. He’s dead,” Lysette said softly.

  “How do you know?”

  “I feel, in my heart, that the threat is gone.”

  He stroked her bare arm absently. “Was there no one to help you, then? Was there nothing you could do?”

  “I went to the priest and he told me to pray.”

  “For what?”

  “For the strength to bear it...”

  Becker snorted.

  “Or for my husband to change.”

  “And?”

  “He did not change,” she said simply.

  “It’s a wonder he didn’t kill you,” Becker muttered.

  “There were times when I hoped he would.”

  Becker pulled her tighter against him. “I would like...” he said.

  “What?”

  He shrugged. “I wish I could offer you something, tell you that your life would be different.”

  She put her arms around his neck and kissed him. “It is different now. You’ve made it different. And you don’t have to offer me anything. Just seeing you and being with you sometimes is enough.”

  “Are you sure?” he asked quietly, kissing her back.

  “I’m sure.” Lysette clung to him, thinking of how he had looked while poised above her: panting, his hair tangled by her hands, his brow and upper lip spangled with sweat. She had at last seen him lose that distant self possession, because of her, and it gave her great satisfaction.

  His kiss lingered, and he began to make love to her again, less urgently but no less intensely than before.

  * * *

  Laura paced the Duclos kitchen, unable to sit down or stand still. The minutes ticked by with agonizing slowness and as each one passed in silence she feared that the mission had failed. She tormented herself with visions of Harris and Alain surprised by a patrol, foiled by a faulty detonator, pursued through the night as helpless fugitives. She strained her ears listening for the blast she could not possibly fail to hear, and when the thunderous explosion finally came, she sagged against the table in relief, gripping its edge for support.

  Glass all through the house cracked with the force of the blast. Laura ran out to the living room, to the double windows overlooking the street. Fire illuminated the night sky and a spreading cloud of smoke billowed through it, wafting toward the village. Townspeople, most of them in nightclothes, ran out of their houses, gesticulating and pointing toward the source of the noise. Many of them were shaking hands and clapping one another on the back. Although they may have had no hand in the destruction of the factory, they were happy that the German plan for its use had come to a bad end.

  Laura smiled to herself, filled with the pride of accomplishment. But the smile faded as she thought of the retaliation which must surely follow.

  Henri dashed out of his room and down the stairs, joining Laura at the window.

  “What was that?” he whispered, wild eyed. Barefoot and in his nightshirt, his gray hair on end, he appeared twenty years older than he was.

  “Some sort of explosion,” Laura replied mildly. “Looks like the factory.”

  Henri groaned and mumbled to himself.

  “What did you say, Papa?” Laura asked.

  “We are all going to pay for this,” he said fearfully. “You know that.”

  Laura didn’t answer.

  “Why couldn’t you stay out of it?” he demanded, grabbing her by the shoulders and shaking her. “Why couldn’t you just leave it alone?”

  “I don’t know what you mean,” Laura answered evenly, shrugging him off. “You know very well I was here with you all night.”

  “And where is Alain?” the old man demanded. “Do you think I’m stupid? Do you think I don’t see what’s going on in my own house? You’re so smart, so sly, you and the boy. But not so smart as you imagine. Don’t you know who you’re dealing with here? These people mean business, this is not some American game of, how do you say, cops and robbers.” He put his hands over his face and bent his head. “I’ll be blamed for this. I’ll be blamed.”

  They both heard a sound at the kitchen door and looked up as Alain walked into the room. He had been careful to clean up and change his clothes before returning home, but the blazing triumph in his pale eyes was unmistakable.

  “Where were you?” Henri demanded.

  “Playing chess with Pierre Langtot,” Alain replied, glancing at Laura.

  “At this hour?”

  “The game ran late.”

  Henri shook his head. “You are a fool.”

  Alain’s mouth tightened. “No, you’re the fool, old man, to sell yourself for a steady supply of wine.”

  Henri took a step toward his son. Then, as if realizing the futility of the argument he stopped, his shoulders sagging. “You’ll need an alibi for this. We all will,” he said wearily.

  “I have one,” Alain said casually. “His wife was with us the whole time.

  “And you think they’ll listen to her?” Henri asked incredulously.

  Alain turned away. “Don’t concern yourself with this,” he told his father. “Just close your eyes as you have always done and go back to bed.”

  Henri hesitated a long moment, then quietly climbed the stairs to his room.

  Laura waited until he was out of earshot and then said excitedly, “Everything went off as planned?”

  “Everything. I doubt if there’s a furnace left standing.”

  Laura hugged him, then whispered, “Harris?” She was aware that her asking would annoy Alain but was too concerned to restrain herself.

  “Already gone,” he replied shortly
, reaching for the water pump and splashing his face. “He left for Calais as soon as it blew.”

  “Thank God. And everyone else got away all right?”

  “Yes.”

  “So what now?” Laura asked anxiously.

  Alain met his sister-in-law’s probing gaze. “So now we wait. And hope that everyone keeps courage and doesn’t talk.”

  Their gazes locked, both suspecting that the real challenge still lay ahead of them.

  * * *

  In Bar-le-Duc Becker was jolted awake by the nearby thunder of the explosion. He knew immediately what it was. He grabbed for his clothes and began throwing them on, his mind working faster than his fingers.

  Lysette sat up behind him, clutching the sheet to her bosom. Her eyes widened as she saw him dressing with such frantic haste.

  “I heard a noise,” she said, still befuddled with sleep. “What was it?”

  Becker bent and kissed her lightly. “Get up, liebchen. Get dressed. You cannot be seen here and I must deal with this.”

  “What happened?”

  “Don’t be afraid. Hesse will take you home.”

  “Anton, tell me.”

  “The factory in Fains,” he replied calmly, facing her as he buttoned his shirt. “Your countrymen have blown up the factory.”

  Chapter 7

  Lysette stared at him uncertainly.

  “Don’t worry,” he said soothingly, handing her the slip he had removed hours earlier. “I’ll send for you when this is over.”

  “Will you?” she asked, worried. Her status as his lover was too new, too precarious, and this calamity was only one of many that could affect it.

  “Of course. I’ll send Hesse, don’t go with anyone but him. It may be a few days but we’ll be together again.”

  Reassured, she dressed in the bedroom as Becker went through to answer a knock on the outer door.

  It was Hesse. “Sir, the factory in Fains has been demolished,” the boy announced without preliminary.

  “Totally?” Becker asked. He looked as if he had dressed hurriedly, but was otherwise calm, in control: the same.

  “Yes, sir. According to preliminary reports only the shell of the building remains.” They both looked up as a siren screamed past in the street: the civilian fire truck from Bar-le-Duc was responding to the emergency.

  “Is it still burning?”

  “Yes, sir. And the fire could spread.”

  Becker issued a series of curt orders concerning the deployment of manpower to contain the fire. Hesse scribbled on a pad and then looked up when Becker asked, “Was anyone seen around the factory before this happened?”

  Hesse looked embarrassed. “We found the guards tied up in the woods. Evidently they were knocked out and brought there.”

  Becker nodded wearily. “The work of locals,” he said. “I’m going directly to the site. I want you to take the lady home and then join me at the factory. I’ll get another driver for the moment. Understood?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Becker called Lysette from the bedroom and she emerged shyly, unable to look at Hesse, who also avoided her gaze. Becker didn’t touch her but merely said in a low tone, “Remember what I told you.”

  She nodded, then walked past him with her escort.

  Becker waited until they were gone, then glanced in the mirror above the fireplace mantel to smooth his hair as he put on his hat.

  He knew only too well what his fate would be after this night. He would feel the full wrath of his government for letting a bunch of schoolboys blow one of its pet projects to smithereens under his very nose. It had to be schoolboys, women, old codgers; there was nobody else left. And he had underestimated them.

  Becker stared at the dark eyed man who looked back at him, accepting his fate. He would never get out of this godforsaken place now. Worse yet, this success would undoubtedly inspire the rebels to further exploits that he would have to suppress. All of a sudden he had been promoted from policeman to executioner.

  In his despair he tried to think of something positive, and his mind settled on Lysette. He would not let her go. He had nothing left: his reputation, his family, his country now in the hands of madmen, were all gone. A man was entitled to hang on to something, wasn’t he?

  He pulled down the peak of his cap and went out to face what he must.

  When Becker arrived the factory site looked like some Faustian scene from hell. Soldiers ran back and forth with hoses and bucket brigades trying to douse the fire, which burned furiously. An armed guard held back the crowd of curious locals. Broken bricks, pieces of wood and other debris were scattered everywhere, and in the center of the blaze the misshapen skeleton of the glassworks crumbled under the assault of the flames. The air was thick with smoke.

  “Get these people out of here,” Becker barked to a corporal, who started herding people toward the road with his bayonet. Becker ordered two other soldiers to assist him and soon the area was cleared of villagers.

  “You,” Becker said curtly to a private who ran past him with a bucket of water. “Put that down.”

  The boy set the pail on the ground immediately, snapping to attention.

  “Were you nearby when this went up?”

  The boy nodded nervously, wondering if he was going to be blamed for the conflagration.

  “About an hour ago?”

  The boy nodded again.

  “Speak up, boy, I’m not going to hurt you,” Becker said in a more moderate tone, seeing that he was scaring the kid half to death. “I want to know exactly what happened. Can you tell me?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Becker was listening to the boy’s recital, interrupting to ask quick questions, when Hesse arrived and stood behind him, waiting to be recognized.

  Becker dismissed the private and turned to his aide. “Is the lady safe at home?” he asked.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Did anyone see you bringing her back?”

  “No, I dropped her off some distance from her house and just watched her go inside. The streets were in confusion anyway, everyone was abroad because of the explosion. The men are just now restoring order.”

  Becker nodded. “You did well.” He sighed and gestured at the burning building. “Our funeral pyre, Hesse.”

  The corporal said nothing, mentally agreeing.

  “Well, we shall have to do something about this.” He took off his hat and wiped the back of his sleeve across his forehead, picking up a layer of soot in the process. “Start rounding up suspects now,” he ordered Hesse. “Take them out of their beds and bring them to the hospital to be questioned.”

  “Where do I begin?” Hesse asked helplessly, aware that this treachery could have been bred in any home or tavern in the area.

  “Anywhere,” Becker snapped. “Start with the first house on the first street and then proceed to the next. I will be in my office to start the questioning in twenty minutes.”

  “Yes, sir.” Hesse saluted and clicked his heels. Becker turned back to the fire as his aide climbed into the jeep that had brought him and drove away.

  * * *

  Over the next several days Becker slept little and ate almost nothing. His grooming remained as impeccable as ever, but dark smudges stained the skin under his eyes and the hollows in his cheeks became more pronounced. He was smoking his fourth cigarette in a row as Hesse knocked briefly, then entered his office. They had grown short on formality of late.

  “That was the last group, sir,” Hesse said. “I just sent them home. There’s nobody else.”

  Becker drew deeply on his cigarette. Three days of questioning had yielded no answers. It was clear that most of them knew nothing, and the ones who did were locked as tight as steel drums. Such tenacity in this ragtag bunch of farmers; he would not have thought it possible.

  He sighed and shrugged slightly. “Pick up the old man,” he said to Hesse.

  “Who?” Hesse said, startled.

  “The mayor. Duclos. Bring him to me.”r />
  Brigitte’s father. “But sir, he’s a collaborator,” Hesse said quickly. “It’s our policy to leave such people and their families alone. We can’t expect them to work with us unless we protect them.”

  Becker arched one black brow. “You are now going to instruct me on proper procedure, Hesse?”

  Hesse turned red but remained in place.

  “Well?” Becker said impatiently.

  “Sir.”

  “Go on. Say it.”

  “I think it would be a mistake to treat this man like the rest when he has cooperated so willingly and so well. Besides, he’s a puppet, a foolish drunk. What can he know?”

  “He has a belligerent son and that American woman is his daughter-in-law. Plus he’s a coward, a weak link. I’m tired of playing around with these people. Bring him in.”

  Hesse looked at the floor.

  “Did I give you an order, corporal?” Becker said quietly.

  Hesse saluted smartly and left.

  Becker wondered briefly what had made his usually obedient aide protest, then forgot about it. He had more pressing concerns. He had to get to the bottom of this soon. He’d spent too much time on it already.

  He sat back to await the arrival of Henri Duclos.

  * * *

  Laura was in her classroom in Bar-le-Duc, setting up for the new school year, when Brigitte burst in from the hall, still in her student’s uniform. She was supposed to be on shift at the hospital across the way, and one glance at her chalky complexion convinced Laura that the worst had happened.

  She was right.

  “Alain’s been arrested,” Brigitte gasped, her eyes wild. “Sweet Jesus, what are we going to do?”

  Laura grabbed the younger woman’s hand and made her sit down in her desk chair.

  “When?” she said. “How?”

  Brigitte tried to answer and gulped instead, putting her hand to her mouth.

  “All right,” Laura said. “Rest a minute. Take a deep breath.”

  Brigitte obeyed and then said, “I just heard it at the hospital. They picked Papa up this morning after you left for work. About an hour ago they arrested Alain when he reported back to the factory cleanup detail after lunch.”

  “Papa told them something,” Laura said.