“Am I to be relieved of command?” Becker asked, trying to keep the hopeful note out of his voice.
“Certainly not,” Kleinschmitt barked. “If you are removed it will be an admission that you lost control. You will remain and strengthen your security measures. Reichsfuhrer Himmler is most displeased that this terrorist situation has developed so quickly.” He paused for breath. “And what about the saboteurs? You have only one man. There must have been others working with him.”
Becker sighed. “Standartenfuhrer, we are universally hated here. Perhaps a grandmother stole the dynamite for him, perhaps a four-year-old concealed the fuse in his sock. Do you expect me to shoot everybody in the town?”
“But surely there is some cell, some nucleus that could be rooted out entirely. If the right measures were applied to the prisoner before his execution there might yet be some information we could get from him.”
“He’s eighteen years old and we’re taking his life,” Becker replied shortly. “That’s enough for us to get from him.”
Kleinschmitt stared at the Colonel stonily, his hatred almost palpable. What an ass the man was, concerning himself with this peasant rabble. But with his background, what could one expect? The rich always had their hearts bleeding for somebody. At a polite distance, of course. Well, in the future none of that would matter anymore. He, Kleinschmitt, the butcher’s son from the backwater of Baden, would have the power, and in the new Reich power was everything. Becker might not want to soil his hands by doing the Gestapo’s type of thorough job but he would soon see where his superior airs would get him.
“I think I should inform you that I have been assigned to oversee your conduct here permanently,” Kleinschmitt said ominously, fingering the leather strap across his chest. “I shall be checking in with you from time to time, and will most assuredly report your handling of this situation to the Chancellery.”
Becker ignored the threat implicit in the statement. Kleinschmitt did not outrank him; at this point he could only talk. But he could certainly make trouble for him over the long haul.
“I assume you will be staying for the execution,” Becker said mildly.
“I will observe to make sure everything is carried out correctly,” Kleinschmitt replied, and strode across the room. “In the meantime, I would like a tour of your installation.” He yanked open the door to the hall and waited expectantly.
“Hesse,” Becker called. “Come here.”
The boy appeared instantly, looking nervous.
“Please take the Standartenfuhrer wherever he would like to go and show him whatever he wants to see,” Becker said. “Place all of our resources at his disposal.”
Hesse saluted obediently, then stepped back to let the intelligence officer precede him from the room. He glanced over his shoulder at Becker, who nodded shortly, encouraging him. The two left, Hesse pulling the door closed behind him.
Becker took off his hat and loosened his collar, patting down his pockets for his cigarettes. He found the packet and lit one, leaning a hip against his desk. He drew the smoke deep into his lungs, sucking until his cheeks hollowed, then exhaled luxuriously.
What a sad time for Germany when men like Kleinschmitt, buffoons outfitted in fancy uniforms, were running the show. Becker could picture him in an hour’s time, puffed up with his own importance, stalking around with a riding crop behind his back when to Becker’s certain knowledge the idiot had never been near a horse. Not all the members of the Gestapo were as grotesque as Kleinschmitt, of course; most were merely opportunists and some were brilliant. But Becker had detected a common strain among them that made them eminently suited to their work. It was not mere cruelty, though it often wore that face, but rather a sublime indifference to any concerns that did not directly further their own interests and the cause of the Reich (presumed to be one and the same). They saw their victims, not as people, but as obstacles on the path to their glorious vision of world domination. And obstacles must be eliminated.
Becker stubbed out his cigarette and re-buttoned his collar. He would get through this day and in the evening, he promised himself, he would send for Lysette.
* * *
The execution of Alain Duclos was meant to set a public example but the spectators were few. The German officers looked on with a handful of the townspeople as Alain was led, blindfolded and bound at the wrists, to the square in front of the church. Five soldiers took aim and fired in unison on signal, and Alain fell dead instantly.
His family did not see it. Henri remained locked in his room, where he’d been since his son was arrested, picking from the trays Laura left outside his door. Laura and Brigitte stayed at home, as Alain had requested. The Thibeau boys, escorted by the parish priest, Father Deslourdes, brought his body back to the house when it was over.
That night, Becker was smoking in his quarters when he heard the knock he was anticipating. He dropped his cigarette into an ashtray and started forward.
“Enter,” he called.
Lysette stepped through the door as Hesse pulled it closed from the hall.
Becker reached her in two strides and pulled her into his arms.
“I waited so long for you to send for me,” she whispered.
“Four days,” he said against her hair.
“Too long,” she responded.
He led her straight to the bed without further conversation. They fell on it together, starved for what they could give each other: comfort, solace, refuge from the storm. And afterward, when Lysette drew back to pull the sheet over them Becker held her fast, winding his arms around her waist and burying his face between her breasts.
The needy gesture was uncharacteristic, but Lysette knew him well enough already not to question him. She let him lie against her, stroking his damp hair, until his whole body relaxed. His breathing became deep and even and she thought he had fallen asleep until he said, “The Duclos boy was shot today.”
“Yes, I know,” Lysette responded. “On your orders.”
He rolled off her and onto his back, throwing his forearm across his eyes. “I thought you might not come to me tonight,” he murmured.
“Because of that?” she asked.
“The American widow is your friend,” he responded. Then after a pause, “She asked to see me, you know.”
“To plead for his life?”
Becker dropped his arm and looked up at her. “No. She knew nothing could save him. She wanted a last visit for her and his sister.”
“Did you grant it?”
“Yes.” He sat up suddenly and rested his head against the wall behind the bed. “She wouldn’t leave and I found myself unable to throw her out. Such an insolent woman. I didn’t think she would ever humble herself by coming to me and asking for permission.”
“She loved Alain very much,” Lysette said gently. “Some things are more important than pride.”
“Soon you and she will be starting up the school again,” he said, half smiling, taking her hand. But she could tell he was changing the subject for her sake, while his mind was still on the Duclos affair.
“Killing Alain will not stop them, Anton,” she said softly.
“I know,” he answered wearily. “I know.” He released her hand and sat up on the side of the bed.
“‘The blood of martyrs is the seed of the church,’” Lysette murmured.
He turned. “I see the sisters taught you your Latin,” he observed. “Tertullian, isn’t it?”
“I’m not sure. They used to quote that when telling us that the Roman persecutions of the early Church only made the Christians more determined to endure.”
“And you think I have made a martyr of Alain Duclos,” he said flatly.
“You took his country. He was trying to get it back. You would do the same.”
He nodded slowly, his dark eyes on her face. “Why don’t you hate me as all the others do?” he asked softly.
“I don’t know,” she whispered, touching his cheek. “There was just s
omething about you, from the beginning. I couldn’t see you as one of them.”
“But I am one of ‘them,’” he reminded her soberly, looking away. “And neither one of us will be permitted to forget it.”
Lysette dropped her hand into her lap and knotted it with her other one. “Anton, there’s something I want to tell you.”
The tone of her voice alerted him and he glanced at her sharply. “What is it?”
“You know my father was Polish,” she said slowly.
“Yes?”
“He was a Polish Jew. I’m half Jewish.”
He looked at her, speechless.
“No one knows,” she said quietly. “I’m illegitimate, so the birth records show only my mother’s name. I haven’t registered.”
His lips twitched, and she was astonished to see that he was on the verge of laughter. She stared back at him, nonplussed.
“Lysette, what are you telling me?” he said. “I am sleeping with a Frenchwoman, something I forbid my own soldiers to do, and for which I could be shot by my superiors. If your countrymen knew what you were up to you would be dragged through the streets and be lucky to finish with nothing more serious than a beating and a shaved head. How could your being Jewish possibly make this any worse?”
“I thought you might care,” she said in small voice.
He tipped her chin up with his forefinger and forced her to meet his gaze. Now his expression was quite serious.
“I am no party to that unspeakable barbarism, Lysette. Why do you think I am here?”
When she didn’t answer he swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood up, going for his inevitable cigarettes. She waited until he returned with them and sat next to her, lighting one. He inhaled and then said through a stream of smoke, “I told you before that this posting was a punishment for me.”
“Yes.”
“I was sent here because they had to find a way to get rid of me without actually killing me. This distasteful duty, off in France where I was unlikely to cause any real trouble, seemed expedient.”
“Who are ‘they?’” Lysette asked.
“National Socialists,” Becker said shortly, dragging on his cigarette again.
“Nazis,” she murmured.
“My wife’s family, her father and brothers, are prominent party members.”
“I see,” she whispered.
“We both come from powerful industrialist families,” he said. His vocabulary momentarily failed him and he used the German words “vermogend, kraftig” in description before switching back to French, but she understood. “Elise is a descendant of the Hohenzollerns, the Brandenburg princes. My grandfather was a member of the Reichstag, my father a general in the first war. He was a second son and did not inherit the title so he went into the military. Elise and I seemed well matched.”
“Were you in love with her?”
He sighed. “She was beautiful, and we were both young. I don’t know. All I do know is that it doesn’t matter anymore.” He gestured with the cigarette between his fingers, creating an arc of fire in the dark room. “We had the children, two boys, and then with the thirties came...political differences.” He met her eyes. “I could not believe my countrymen would allow such people to lead them. In the beginning I said too much. It was not forgotten. And Elise, who thought she had married a rising star, found herself stuck with a pariah. She has gradually disassociated herself from me and makes the rounds of the political affairs with her father, who is very big in the party.” He smiled bitterly. “You can imagine what he thinks of me.”
“Why haven’t you divorced?” Lysette asked softly, amazed that he was telling her so much.
“Elise doesn’t want the scandal. I haven’t insisted, I imagine because it all seemed so pointless anyway. We couldn’t be any further apart than we are now.” He paused thoughtfully. “I suppose she has lovers,” he said, lifting one shoulder to indicate that he was no longer interested enough to care.
“How sad,” Lysette murmured shortly. She didn’t want to stem the flow of information, hungry as she was to know everything about him. He had spoken more about himself in the last ten minutes than he had in their whole previous acquaintance.
Becker studied the burning cigarette in his hand. “The worst part was the loss of the children. Elise put them in boarding school so she would be free to carry on her social life, but she still has influence. She has encouraged them to think of me as some sort of baffling eccentric whose bizarre ideas are more important to him than his name and his family.” He raised the cigarette to his lips and took a drag. “They treat me like a mental patient, or some distant, confused relative.”
Lysette put her hand on his arm.
He shook himself slightly. “Anyway, I was telling you why I survived to land here in your beautiful country. Elise did not want the father of her children killed. For their future, you see. She has great plans for them. People would forget, in time, that I was an undesirable but they would never forget a political murder. Also I have family, cousins and brothers-in-law, other relatives who contribute heavily to the party coffers. Some of these relations might get upset if I turned up dead and in spite of everything, the money must continue to flow. So sending me here seemed a tidy solution. No chance for me to cause trouble at home. No chance of, God forbid, my becoming a war hero like my father and then trading on my record to get people to listen to me. This exile was as good as my being dead, for their purposes.” He rubbed his neck. “But not quite dead enough, as it turns out. In light of recent events they have sent me a Gestapo watchdog who will be sniffing around from time to time to keep me on my toes.” He leaned forward and stubbed out his cigarette. “So I am despised at home and despised here.” He smiled slightly and touched her bare shoulder. “By all but you.”
“How can you stand it?”
His jaw hardened. “I am German. I love my country and I have to believe that Germany will survive this dark time, as she has survived others. In the meanwhile I cannot sully my father’s memory by refusing to do my duty. So I will remain here.”
“With no friend but me?” Lysette asked softly.
“None but you, liebchen,” he answered.
“I’m sorry you’ve been so lonely,” she whispered.
He pulled the sheet down to the bottom of the bed and moved over her, covering her body with his.
“Not anymore,” he said, kissing her throat, then her mouth. “Not anymore.”
Lysette put her arms around his neck and closed her eyes.
* * *
Fains-les-Sources did not boast a mortician, or anything like one. Dr. Fenelon, who had delivered Alain in the upstairs bedroom of the Duclos house nearly twenty years earlier, prepared his body for the wake. Laura and Brigitte were spared that grim task. The wounds were all to the torso, three straight through the heart, so his face was unmarked. He was dressed in his best (and only) suit, and laid out in the front room in a coffin made of native cedar donated by Deschamps, the carpenter. His blond hair, so unruly all his life, was combed neatly off his forehead. His long lashes lay serenely on pale cheeks, twin gold crescents. In death he looked like the angel he now was.
All day the villagers came and went. Everybody wanted to give something. The women brought food in covered dishes left to sit in the kitchen, and the men brought plans for revenge: whispered threats and vows to do more than blow up a factory next time. Curel took Laura aside to report that Alain’s death had brought a new rash of volunteers and contacts from other resistance organizations, alerted to Vipère’s existence by the execution. You see Alain, Laura said silently to the dead boy in the next room, already your sacrifice bears fruit.
No one asked for Henri. He was in the house on the upper floor, but his presence was ignored.
Late in the afternoon Laura stood in the hall looking into the parlor, where a group of black clad women flanking the coffin were saying the rosary aloud, led in their responses by the parish priest. A pair of young girls were cry
ing, carried away by the drama of the scene as well as the real tragedy. And Brigitte stood in a corner, her hands folded before her, looking like a tightrope walker about to fall off the wire.
Laura went and took her hand, leading her out of the room. “You should have something to eat, Brigitte,” she said. “There’s plenty in the kitchen.”
Brigitte shook her head. “I’m not hungry.” She gazed at Laura out of Alain’s clear blue eyes. “I was just thinking about something I was told in catechism class when I was little. The nun said that when you die someone you loved who’s gone before you comes to greet you and show you the way. I hope Thierry did that for Alain, don’t you?”
“Yes, I do,” Laura said.
“He wouldn’t be afraid, you know, if Thierry were with him.”
“I know,” Laura responded, turning away. She walked back to the kitchen wondering how much more of this she could bear. How much more of it could anyone bear? She stared at the casseroles and pies, the stews and custards, and wanted to hurl them all at the walls.
It was several seconds before she realized that someone was knocking at the back door. This was unusual; people paying calls used the front one. She went to the screen and saw a man she didn’t know standing on the porch step. He wasn’t dressed for a wake either; he was wearing rough pants and a sweater and carried a small package in his hands.
“Are you Laura Duclos?” he said when he saw her.
“Yes.”
“I am Jean Fournier, cousin to Paul Curel.”
“Oh, you missed him,” Laura said, opening the screen. “He was here earlier but he’s gone home.”
The man glanced nervously over his shoulder, then leaned in through the door to say, “I’m not here for Curel. I have a message from the American. Harris.”
Laura put both hands to her mouth. “What is it?” she whispered.
“He is safe in London. He will be on leave from September 10th to the 17th at the Russell Hotel. Will you come?”
Clash by Night (A World War II Romantic Drama) Page 17
