by Vic Robbie
Here the French had built a grand statue to Louis XV before tearing it down and using the square for the public guillotining of, among others, Marie Antoinette during the revolution. Would history repeat itself with the Nazis raising a statue to their Führer and also using it to stage their public executions?
The timeless beauty of his city still aroused him, and he concentrated on locking away every memory. From the square, it was possible to see four great landmarks of Paris and he slowed down to almost walking pace. Twisting around in his seat, he saw to his left, the Madeleine; behind, the Arc de Triomphe; across the Seine, the Palais Bourbon; and ahead the Tuileries.
He veered into the Rue de Rivoli, drove past the Jardin des Tuileries, and opposite the Louvre turned left into Rue de Marengo. Crossing the Rue Saint-Honoré, he arrived at the Banque de France on the Croix des Petits Champs.
Gasping for breath, Pierre, an asthmatic veteran of the First World War, scuttled out to meet him.
‘Bonjour.’ Pierre touched his cap and pointed in the general direction of the North from where could be heard the dull crump of explosions.
‘Le Bosch are getting closer.’ Pierre cocked his head as if hearing the stomping of their boots.
He didn’t doubt if Pierre had a gun he would defend his city against the invaders single-handed.
Looking up at the display of flags above the bank’s entrance – five tricolours on either side and two much larger ones in the centre – he wondered how much of France’s heritage would be left in the next twenty-four hours. Would they pull them down and replace them with their swastikas? He’d heard the Nazis were looting museums and palaces and sending anything of value back to Germany. Would they appreciate this impressive building with its abundance of murals, gold leaf and paintings as a prize of war or deface it in an act of vandalism? His staff were preparing for the day’s business attempting to stick to their regular routine with an almost exaggerated attention to detail as if in some way it would bring order to the disarray around them. A wave of depression swept over him and tears welled up in his eyes. It was all so pointless. Whatever was left was not theirs; it would belong to the invaders. His staff may as well go home and await the inevitable. He studied them engrossed in their work as routine supplanted their thoughts and he squared his shoulders and put on his most confident smile mixing amongst them giving a word of encouragement here and advice there. Just a skeleton staff remained and he noted those who’d fled and those who’d decided they’d no better option than to stay. It wouldn’t be long before the Germans arrived, and he wondered whether they would smash down the doors and empty the bank’s vaults or arrange a more civilised transference of power.
There was still one treasure of France’s in the vaults he was determined should not fall into the invaders’ hands and he was the only one who could prevent it happening. He had two choices – do nothing and perhaps survive, or do what his conscience dictated and risk punishment.
It could be he was signing his own death warrant, but he’d made his decision. He climbed the grand staircase to his first-floor office, admiring the magnificent hanging tapestries on the way, and with a trembling hand picked up the telephone.
‘Please put me through to the British Embassy,’ he instructed the operator.
8
FOR years, alena had watched these gates open and close from a distance – the gateway to freedom. It was only a matter of yards, yet it would be like stepping over a threshold into a different world. Under her breath, she willed the van to start moving again – closer to freedom – with an intensity so severe it felt as if she were shouting. And the blood pounded in her brain with such power it felt as if it might split apart.
They were going nowhere. The rear doors of the van were still open and the private let the dust settle before, screwing up his eyes, he peered again into the vehicle.
Now the driver’s voice was louder than ever. He was talking about the weather and crop rotation and the price of vegetables. And she wondered whether it was a ploy to help combat any sounds she and the boy might make or whether his nerve was unravelling.
Tears flowed down her cheeks and she held her son closer with an animal desperation. They wouldn’t take him no matter what. The pain that had started in her chest was everywhere now like a fever and she felt herself being crushed into the rough wooden floor. Paralysed by the knowledge the slightest movement would dislodge the sacks or the whisper of a sound could betray them, she tightened her grip on her son. Clamping a hand over his mouth and nose, she pressed hard.
She didn’t want to hurt him, just put him to sleep, and she increased the force on his tiny body not wishing to exert an ounce of pressure more than she had to. Guilt flooded her mind and it seemed to link with the beat of her heart resonating so much her whole body shook to its rhythm.
Struggling for survival, the four-year-old bit into the palm of her hand and she wanted to scream as the pain almost caused her to black out. Yet some inner reserve of strength kept her grip tight and her mouth shut and underneath her she felt his wriggling becoming feebler.
Near the doors, some of the sacks had fallen back from the driver’s end and lay scattered on the floor. Just behind the driver was another pile of sacking, and the soldier adjusted his grip on the rifle so he could stab downwards into the hessian.
Her eyes closed tight as she awaited the impact of the blade. The grit from the sacks filled her mouth. Her body knotted causing her legs to cramp and the pain was excruciating as the muscles contracted and she bit into the fabric of her sleeve to stop herself from shouting out in agony. Attempting to increase the pressure on her son, she wept silently in frustration as she realised she couldn’t as if an invisible wall were creating a barrier.
The private’s downward thrust into the sacks jammed in the wood of the floor. He tugged once, twice and still it didn’t come away. Redoubling his efforts, he pulled it free sending some of the sacks swirling into the air and spreading out a fine dust, causing him to reel backwards coughing and spluttering.
A discordant jangle from the telephone in the gatehouse demanded to be answered.
The private froze looking at the corporal; the corporal glanced at the farmer and turned to go and answer it.
Alena gasped. They know.
After a couple of steps, the corporal, impatient to get back to his game of cards, wheeled and shouted at his soldier ‘Get on with it.’ And he flicked the glowing cigarette end into the bushes with his forefinger.
She waited. Waited for the steel of the bayonet to rip into her and she moved her body to shield her son from the cutting edge of the blade.
Now there were two voices whispering to her.
Turn around. Confront him.
And
Don’t turn around.
She remembered a night in Berlin walking along a deserted unlit street. A heavy rain drummed on her umbrella and a wind lifted litter high into the air, and she heard footsteps behind her. Although it could have been anyone, a passer-by, a tramp, a thief, she believed she was being followed. She’d wanted to stop and look back to see who it was and if she had it would have been the end.
Don’t look.
The other voice nagged at her.
Turn, turn now.
Was that a breeze on her flesh or was it the soldier’s warm breath? The hairs stood up on the back of her neck and a crackling like electricity rippled across her scalp making her shiver.
Go on, look.
Don’t.
Don’t turn around.
Wiping his mouth on the sleeve of his tunic, the private spat again on the gravel. This time he climbed into the back of the van and she felt it rock with his weight. He picked up his rifle holding it high above his head for a final lunge at the pile of sacks.
She had to look.
Turn around.
She couldn’t stop herself.
With a grunt, the soldier started the rifle on its path and as he lifted his gaze, he was transfixed by the terrified stare of a green-e
yed woman. Like a tiger with its prey cornered, he bared his teeth in a vicious smile and continued the bayonet downwards in a powerful arc.
9
BEN PETERS circled the package lying on a table in the sitting-room of his small apartment on the Rue du Cardinal Lemoine and he felt nauseous.
Damn Bernay.
Why had he given it to him?
It was still unopened although he knew what was in it just by its smell and feel.
It was evil.
If there had been any doubt, the small box that came with it told him all he needed to know. He’d have to open it sometime although not just yet. Why did his boss have to involve him? Bernay told him he was going on a special mission and to pack a bag for a short trip. No business attire, clothes as if he were going on vacation. Only he suspected it was going to be anything other than a vacation.
What did he expect him to do with the package?
On top of the clothes, he laid a lined, yellow notepad and a small leather case of half-a-dozen pencils and checked that the penknife to sharpen them was also there. Whatever Bernay wanted him to do he must still have some time for his writing. He didn’t want to leave the apartment and wondered if he’d ever return. He’d chosen the location because Ernest Hemingway had once lived in the area. Although at the top of four flights of stairs and he could afford something grander, he’d grown to love the place with its rattling pipes and its constant creaking like a ship in a storm.
At any other time being sent on a mission would have appealed to his sense of adventure though not now. Hell, how many chances like this do you get in a lifetime? Hitler’s troops were set to march into Paris at any time and he would be on the spot to report an episode of history for the New York papers. The Nazis couldn’t touch him. He was an American citizen, a neutral, after all.
If he did leave Paris, his parents would be overjoyed. He’d received a letter from his mother the previous week, using emotional blackmail to persuade him to leave Paris and France and Europe and get back across the Atlantic where he’d be safe. He could imagine his father, who seldom put pen to paper, looking over her shoulder and saying ‘Ben, get your ass over here pronto.’ And roaring with laughter. ‘Do as your mother says, she’s much scarier than that guy Hitler.’
Two years ago his manager in Wall Street had called him into his office and said they were considering sending him to Paris, France. He’d emphasised ‘France’ making it sound like a distant planet. He almost told him to stick it. He didn’t like smelly cigarettes and food to which they did unspeakable things. It wasn’t for him.
Amy Ralston changed everything.
He was seeing her on a regular basis and as she worked just a couple of blocks away in an insurance office, they’d meet up every night in a local diner. He always turned up late and she’d be sitting at the same table with her head resting on her left hand engrossed in a book before her. Sometimes he’d stand on the sidewalk for minutes watching her through the big windows yet she was oblivious to everything around her. Every so often she’d push her hair away from her face and move closer to the page as if climbing back into the story.
He loved the way she’d run her finger down the outside edge of the page before turning it and then flattening it with the palm of her hand. Always there was a flicker of a smile as if anticipating new delights. He’d go in and stand by the table until she’d sense his presence and she’d bend down the corner of the page and close the book before stashing it in her handbag. Getting up, she’d kiss him on the cheek and their date would begin.
He didn’t know how often that happened and after a time he began to resent it. Why was she more interested in her book than him? Why was she not looking out for him, anticipating his arrival? He got the feeling if he hadn’t turned up at all she’d have just kept on reading.
One evening, growing ever more agitated by her behaviour, he grabbed her wrist before she could hide the book in her bag and took it from her. Sitting down opposite her, he checked it out. Perused the cover, then the back and turned it over and opened it. He started reading and almost forgot she was there.
After a while, she put a hand on the page to stop him.
‘Enough.’ She smiled as if she were greeting a newcomer to some secret society. ‘You can have the book. This is our time now.’
The next night she had a new book for him and so it went on. Until she dumped him for a nerdy guy with glasses and a sports jacket who could apparently recite the opening line of every book that had ever been written.
Paris would be a wonderful experience, the manager said. It would give him an invaluable understanding of how European banks worked as in his words ‘we’ve got to learn how to work with these guys in this new age’.
His parents were overjoyed. It was proof everything they’d done for him in upstate New York had paid off and he was on the ladder to success. Although Paris was further away than his mother cared to contemplate, it wouldn’t be for long and he’d return to promotion. He didn’t care about promotion. He’d read what Ernest Hemingway had written about Paris as if it were an intimate friend and wanted a taste of it. It seemed a magical world full of endless parties, long liquid lunches and elegant women. And when they finished making love in the afternoons, they’d write magnificent prose read by beautiful people and it would last forever. The French appeared a race so different from his fellow Americans he knew he had to experience all of this. Not only did he dip a toe in the ambience of Paris, but he also jumped in fully clothed. Wherever possible, he retraced the steps of the author determined he’d make Hemingway’s experiences his own. It was not enough to observe. He had to live it so it seeped through his pores and into his core until he felt it flowing through his veins. He committed everything to his lined, yellow notepad believing in some way he was capturing a piece of the very essence of the great man. If he understood him, perhaps he could write like him. He smelled the same sweet smell of decadence. He ate the same unspeakable food, he drank the wine he’d drunk and some more. Then there were the women who unlike their American sisters didn’t avert their eyes when you looked at them. Instead, they sought direct eye contact and when you smiled they smiled back and the introduction was made. The language wasn’t a problem. Someone once said the best way to learn a foreign language was in bed – and he was pretty fluent.
He loved the winter best when the first rains came and the smoke from the chimneys above the mansards billowed and blew and changed direction in the wind. He’d miss those afternoons when he would wander determined to get lost in the city. Finding a new café where friends or acquaintances wouldn’t disturb him, he’d sit down to write. First he’d order a café au lait and if the writing were going well, he’d take a cognac.
He was oblivious to the comings and goings and the natural hubbub of the café provided a comforting rhythm. Every so often, perhaps to sharpen a pencil, he’d look up and observe his companions and again he’d immerse himself in his writing and when he next looked up they’d be gone.
Damn Bernay.
Leaving now would be like running away. Not something Hemingway would have ever considered. He believed the author had never run away from anything. Even at school he’d faced up to the bully and taken his beating. He didn’t ever want to run away from Paris.
Yet Bernay was not a man you could refuse. The banker had called him into his office and told him in his quiet, persuasive way what he required of him. He respected Bernay, a good man who cared for the people under his command. He couldn’t envisage him ever asking an employee to do something he wouldn’t do himself, and that made it all the harder.
As usual, Bernay had kept the shutters in his office closed so daylight didn’t dilute his concentration and a banker’s lamp was the only light pouring over his leather-topped desk.
Bernay hadn’t looked him in the eye at first, instead gazing at a fixed point somewhere above Ben’s head.
‘Ben,’ Bernay said at last. ‘I need you to do something for me... for the bank,
for France. It’s of great importance.’
He hesitated, wondering what was coming next.
‘You’ll have to leave Paris almost immediately.’
He groaned in disappointment.
‘I’d planned on sticking around.’ Ben was puzzled and failed to disguise his disappointment. ‘Things are just getting interesting.’
Bernay switched his gaze, studying him for several seconds as though questioning whether he’d made the right choice before he smiled and raised both hands in understanding.
‘I know, but what I need you to do is more important.’
‘What do you have in mind?’ Ben didn’t want to hear the answer.
‘I can’t tell you yet. Just make the necessary arrangements. You’ll be away for some time.’
He spread his arms in exasperation. ‘At least tell me where you’re sending me.’
Bernay looked into the distance and a flicker of doubt rippled across his face. ‘I can’t just yet. For your own safety, you understand?’
‘Do I have a choice?’
Bernay just looked at him.
‘What if I say no?’
‘I don’t think you will when you hear what it is.’
He shook his head and knew it was a futile gesture.
Bernay got to his feet. ‘I’ll let you know when I need you. Good man, I know you won’t let me or France down.’
As he reached for the doorknob, Bernay called him back. ‘No one must know about this conversation.’
His questioning look demanded an answer.
‘This is not without danger, Ben. All I can tell you now is if you succeed France will be in your debt.’
He finished packing the holdall and again checked the notepad and pencils were there. Going over to the table, he picked up the small box. Opening it, he counted the contents. There were two missing. He wondered what had happened to them and whether Bernay had used them.
He couldn’t put it off any longer. He opened the oilskin pouch as if it would snap back at him and took out the heavy object, feeling it cold against his skin. With revulsion, he placed the revolver on the table before him and took a step backwards.
