As Time Goes By

by Michael Walsh

  “Very impressive, Ricky,” said Renault. “And here all this time I thought you were a simple saloon keeper. Still waters indeed.”

  “That's just what I plan to be again someday,” said Rick, popping open his flask and taking another drink. “As soon as this war is over.”

  “Somehow, my friend,” said Renault, “I don't think fate is going to let you. You are destined for greater things.”

  “Don't count on it,” said Rick.

  Renault settled back into his seat. Now that the excitement was over, his mind was free to concentrate on more important things. America attacked! He knew that Rick was stunned. He had long suspected that Rick's c'est la vie attitude was only a pose, a carapace that covered a soft heart. Rick might have left his country years before—why, he still had no idea—and seemed loath to return, but he remembered the way Rick had stared down the boastful Major Strasser and the fawning consul Heinze when he'd advised them not to try to invade certain sections of New York. As one whose country had already fallen to the Nazis, Renault sympathized, and his heart went out to his friend.

  What did this mean for him? Since his first trip to the gaming tables in Deauville—which, as luck would have it, coincided with his discovery of la diffÉrence at age twelve—Louis Renault had believed that gambling was a profession, not a pastime, and he regarded his police duties as the unfortunately necessary surety that enabled him to pursue a higher calling. Still, he much preferred a fixed roulette wheel to actual games of honest chance. He had spent most of his adult life calculating odds and acting on them, and up until a few hours ago he'd been quite happy leaving his chips on the Nazis’ number and watching his winnings add up. Now, though, he wasn't so sure. Which, he supposed, was one of the reasons he was in this car instead of back in Casablanca, enjoying the favors of some delectable young lady whose lust for freedom coincided with his lust for her body. A fair exchange, Renault had always thought, and he'd made the pursuit of it his life.

  On the outskirts of Rabat, Sam swung around the city. It would not do for them to be stopped by an officious cop. Not in an American car with a Russian in the front seat, a Vichy police official in the back, alongside the soon-to-be persona non grata Rick Blaine. But the capital city of wartime French Morocco was shrouded in darkness, and if anyone noticed their passing, he wisely kept it to himself.

  From Rabat to Port Lyautey was only about fifty miles, and they made it in just over an hour.

  They found Jean-Claude Chausson waiting for them at daybreak at the tiny airfield a few miles outside the city. He was standing beside a Fokker 500, which could carry several passengers, one pilot, and any sort of contraband a smuggler's heart could wish for—and had, many times.

  “Allo, Monsieur Rick,” said Chausson.

  “How are you, Jean-Claude?” said Rick, shaking the pilot's hand.

  “Bored,” came the reply.

  “Let's see if we can do something about that,” said Rick.

  Chausson was a Free Frenchman of decidedly anti-Nazi sympathies. Rick had first met him in Spain, when Jean-Claude was running arms to the Loyalists. Since that defeat he had made a far more lucrative living running unstamped liquor into French Morocco, much of it destined for Rick's cafÉ, and guns wherever they were most profitably needed. In Africa that was nearly everywhere.

  “Give Sacha the keys to the car, Sam,” ordered Rick as they boarded the plane. “Take good care of her, Sacha.”

  “You mean the Buick or Yvonne, boss?” asked Sacha with a leer.

  “Take your pick,” said Rick, as the plane's door closed. “They're both expensive.”

  The flight to Lisbon was uneventful. Portugal had learned early in the conflict that not being interested in the comings and goings of the people passing through was far more remunerative than worrying about either their pasts or their futures. Some place had to be a port of exit from Europe, and Lisbon was only too happy to oblige. With Franco's neutral Spain as its buffer zone, business was very good.

  They headed straight for the Aviz, where Rick inquired first about Mr. and Mrs. Victor Laszlo. Away from the Nazis, he thought, they might finally be traveling together as husband and wife.

  He was wrong. The head clerk, who bore a nametag that proclaimed his surname to be Medeiros, shook his head sadly. “I am sorry to say we have no record of them,” he told Rick.

  “Are you sure?” Rick asked as politely as he could.

  “Very sure,” replied Medeiros. He was not about to betray a lady's confidence so easily. “It is my job, after all, to know who comes and who goes here.”

  Well, there was a Ferrari in every crowd, thought Rick. “Try under a different name, Miss Ilsa Lund. Try to remember the most beautiful woman you have—”

  Madeiros didn't let Rick get any farther. “Oh yes, Miss Lund,” he exclaimed with delight, and Rick could see the memory of Ilsa in his eyes. A man didn't forget a face or a figure like hers. “You are Mr. Richard Blaine?” asked the clerk.

  “The only one who'll admit to it,” replied Rick.

  “Then this is for you.” Medeiros proudly handed him Ilsa's note. “She left it for you not two hours ago.”

  Rick scanned it rapidly, then stuffed it in his pocket. Following her trail, he was beginning to feel like one of the children in “Hansel and Gretel.” He just hoped the Wicked Witch wouldn't be waiting for them both, somewhere in the dark German woods.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Victor Laszlo arrived in London to a hero's welcome, albeit a secret one. He and Ilsa were met on the tarmac at Luton airfield on December 8, 1941, not by a committee, but by a single man, military in mien and brusque of manner, who introduced himself as Major Sir Harold Miles and shook hands in a brisk, businesslike fashion. After a brief conversation with Laszlo, the major bundled them into a waiting Lancia and sped them into town. An hour later the car pulled up in front of a large but nondescript house in a residential neighborhood, and they were hustled up the front steps and inside. Ilsa was told to wear her coat collar turned up and her hat pulled down low.

  Once inside, however, everything was different. Ilsa had not been sure what to expect, but it wasn't this.

  The parlor floor was warm and cozy. Elegant William Morris wallpaper adorned the walls, and the hearty overstuffed furniture was covered in bright prints. The curtains were brocade and the ceilings ornamented with plaster. A coal fire burned in the hearth, casting off a welcoming warmth, and two chairs nestled invitingly on either side of it. It looked like home, certainly more of a home than she had had in the past year and a half.

  A kindly woman, verging on elderly but still evidently with all her wits and strength about her, took her things and handed her a glass of tea. “I’m Mrs. Bunton,” she said by way of introduction. “I should expect you've had a long and difficult journey. This will take some of the chill off.”

  At the other end of the room, Ilsa watched her husband conferring with Major Miles and another man, who was dressed in the formal morning coat of a diplomat. They were too far away, and speaking too softly, for her to hear their words.

  She took her tea from Mrs. Bunton gratefully, and as she drank it she felt some warmth come back into her bones. After a few minutes Victor broke away from his conversation and walked over to her. “You must be very tired, my dear,” he said. “Why don't you go upstairs and rest for a while? I’ll join you shortly.”

  “Oh, Victor,” she said, “couldn't I stay here, for just a few more minutes?”

  Victor glanced back at the two other men in the room. “I’m afraid I must insist.”

  There was no point in struggling. “Very well,” she said. Mrs. Bunton led her up the stairs and into a beautifully appointed double room. “I’m sure you'll be quite comfortable here,” she said, shutting the door.

  Although she was very tired, for a long time Ilsa lay in bed, unable to fall asleep. She knew the real reason that underlay Victor's solicitude: the conversation he was having had nothing to do with her. She had played out thi
s scene dozens of times before. The meetings in the middle of the night. The strange men in the parlor, some with the faces muffled against recognition. Always it ended the same way, with Victor asking her to leave and closing a door on her. She didn't want it to be that way any longer.

  For the first time in months she felt safe—safe and yet very, very alone. That, she thought, was the story of her married life with Victor Laszlo. His wife, but only when he felt it safe to acknowledge her. At his side when she could be, but never really with him. Part of his cause, but not, in the end, his cause. More than a helpmeet, less than a mate.

  Yet as she'd watched him these past few days, she couldn't help once more being impressed with him. This was the man she had fallen in love with as an impressionable girl; this was the man to whom she was now wedded as a mature woman. Victor was tall and well proportioned, with a noble head and kind eyes that had seen suffering she could not begin to fathom. He stood and moved with great dignity, as if responsibility for the fate of the world were resting on his shoulders. Who was to say that, at this moment in history, it wasn't? How she admired him!

  She knew as well how much she meant to him. Hadn't he risked his life for her, time and again? Even if he didn't let her be a part of it, didn't he always tell her how important she was to his work? Didn't he, from time to time, tell her how much he loved her? Her heart swelled with pride as she watched him, so stately and dignified, yet so intent and so commanding.

  Then she thought about Rick Blaine.

  Had she done the right thing by leaving him notes, first in Casablanca and then in Lisbon? Had he even received them? Had he followed her and Victor, as she hoped? Washe here? What would Victor say if he found out? How would he react? What was she hoping for? That Rick had followed—or that he hadn't?

  She felt herself becoming upset and tried to calm down. She started to let herself believe that Rick had never received her note in Lisbon. That he was still back in Casablanca or, better yet, somewhere far away. That the accident of meeting him again and Rick's giving them the letters of transit was just that—an accident, proof of the rightness of Victor's cause, proof that her place was by Victor's side, now and forever, that… There, that was better, wasn't it?

  No, it wasn't. Rick had given her something she had never felt before. It wasn't just the physical joy she felt when she was with him. Rather, it was a closeness, a tenderness, a passion, an excitement far beyond the capacity of other men to give.

  With sudden insight she realized the truth: The way she felt about Rick was exactly the way Victor felt about the cause. It was one thing to love a cause, however; it was another to love a man. But which man did she really love? She struggled to sort out her feelings. Her head told her that while her heart might be conflicted, her duty was clear. Though she might love Rick, her place was with her husband. She had to show Victor that she was worthy of him and, even more important, worthy of his cause. Besides, she would never see Rick again, would she?

  Therefore, Ilsa decided, she would play a greater role in that cause. She was tired of being a pawn in a game played by men: this was not just a man's war, but everybody's. Were the Nazis sparing women in their assault on civilization? She knew from firsthand experience they were not. From now on this was Ilsa Lund's war, too.

  Just then the door opened and someone came in. She expected that it would be Mrs. Bunton, but it was not. It was Victor. “Are you all right, my dear?” he asked, sitting lightly on the bed beside her.

  “Yes, Victor,” replied Ilsa. “I’m fine. In fact, I’m feeling quite myself again.”

  “Good,” Victor said. “I was worried about you. You looked so pale on the flight, so tired, that I feared you might be ill. The stress—”

  “Victor,” said Ilsa, “there's something I need to say to you.” She sat up and faced her husband. He smoothed the covers while he listened.

  “I don't know why we are here, or what you are planning,” she began.

  “That is for your own safety,” he interjected.

  She stopped by placing her right hand on his arm. “But that's just it!” she exclaimed. “I don't want it to be that way anymore! I am no longer the schoolgirl you fell in love with. I’m your wife. All over Europe, girls half my age are dying for what they believe in. How can I do any less?”

  “I don't know what you mean, Ilsa,” Victor said.

  “I mean that I want to be a part of what you are a part of,” she said, her words pouring forth. “If there is danger, I want to share it with you. If there is glory, I want to seek it with you.”

  Victor shook his head. “That is impossible.”

  “It is not,” replied Ilsa, gripping her husband's arm. “You say you are grateful for all the things I have done for you, but I’ve only done what you've let me. I want to do more. You say you love me. Then prove it, by treating me like a woman and not like a child, by treating me like your wife instead of your daughter.”

  For the first time since she had met him, Victor seemed confused and unsure of himself. “I can't,” he said at last. “I cannot put you in such peril.”

  Ilsa looked her husband in the eye. “You already have,” she said. “What else have we shared but peril for the past year and a half? If I have already endured the danger, then let me share in the glory.”

  Victor withdrew from her grasp and stood up. “You are certain this is what you want?”

  “I want the same thing that you want,” she replied. “Nothing more, nothing less.”

  Victor's self-control had reestablished itself. “Very well, then,” he said. “Let us go downstairs together and meet the others.”

  As they returned to the parlor, Ilsa noticed that the two men who had been on the plane with them had joined the group.

  “Gentlemen,” Victor announced loudly, “I have the honor of introducing my wife, Miss Ilsa Lund. Ilsa, this is Sir Ernest Spencer, the British Secretary of War. Major Miles you already know. And these two brave men are Jan Kubiš] and Josef Gabcík, free citizens of Czechoslovakia and comrades-in-arms.”

  Ilsa shook hands with them all. Sir Ernest was a tall, ascetic-looking man with an aristocratically refined face and a small pencil mustache. Major Miles was a powerfully built military man. By contrast, Kubiš] and Gabcík seemed hardly more than boys. “Very pleased to meet you all,” she said.

  “Before we go on,” said Victor, “my wife has something to say.”

  Ilsa gave him a slight bow. “Gentlemen, the past two years have been especially trying for both my husband and me. There were times when, frankly, I despaired. For a while I thought Victor was dead. Later, I myself was seriously ill. But, as you can see, we have both survived.”

  How radiant she looks, thought Laszlo as he watched her performance with growing admiration. He was very proud to call her his wife—and now, in the safety of London, he could.

  “And because we have both survived,” Ilsa went on, “it is now time for us to fully consummate our partnership.” She smiled at her husband, the smile that had first caught his eye and then won his heart. “Therefore, from this moment on I have the honor and pleasure to inform you that I shall be a fully active partner in this operation—anything that you can say in front of Victor you can say in front of me.”

  Sir Ernest cleared his throat. “Well said, Mrs. Laszlo,” he remarked. “But surely you realize the extraordinary danger …”

  “My husband and I have already discussed that. Any danger we encounter we wish to share.”

  Major Miles looked at Victor. “Mr. Laszlo, I congratulate you. With a brave and gallant wife like this, you hardly have need of our assistance.”

  Inside, Victor was beaming. He knew that Ilsa was magnificent, but never before had he suspected just how splendid she really was.

  “Gentlemen,” he said, picking up the skein, “you can see how devoted my wife and I are to the cause. We are, both of us, prepared to die for our beliefs—as are our colleagues from Czechoslovakia in this noble endeavor.” The nod of his
head indicated Jan and Josef. “We do not ask the same sacrifice from you. Only that, when the time comes, you will be there for us—just as surely as we are here for you at this moment.”

  Ilsa rose to go. “I hope you gentlemen will please excuse me. There is someone very important whom I must see. Someone I have not seen in a very long time.”

  There was a moment of silence, broken by Major Miles. “I hope you will forgive me, madam, for asking who this someone might be.”

  “What's the matter, Sir Harold?” she replied. “Don't you trust me?”

  “Nothing of the sort. But in an operation like this, one must maintain the highest level of security. Therefore, it is with the greatest regret that I must ask you who—”

  “I am going to see my mother,” Ilsa said candidly. “I hope that is all right with you gentlemen. I have not seen or spoken to her in two years. I’m sure you will all agree that it is high time that I visit her.”

  Three of the men knew who Ilsa's mother was and what she had suffered at the hands of their enemy. “Please allow me the honor of escorting you personally to that great lady,” said Major Miles, visibly chastened.

  “That is most kind of you, Sir Harold,” Ilsa said. “But I’m quite sure I can find my own way.”

  She took her coat from Mrs. Bunton and went outside. A taxi came right along. She hailed it, gave the driver an address, and stepped into the cab.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Ilsa Lund sat in the taxi, accompanied only by her thoughts. Involuntarily she let out a deep breath and felt a sense of relaxation sweep over her. This was the first time she had been both safe and alone in many months. Yet it seemed either a lifetime ago or only yesterday that she was bidding good-bye to her parents on the steps of their Oslo home, off to Paris for language study at the Sorbonne in the fall of 1938. Who could have imagined that the world she was leaving would so soon disappear? Or that the shy, naive student who was about to embark for France would also vanish, to be replaced by the determined, experienced woman now riding across London? No one, least of all her.