Flame of Resistance

by Tracy Groot

  Never before had Alric shared a beer with Braun. He was in crisis, but they didn’t talk about the crisis, not then. They talked about his sons. They talked about Alric’s family. And then: Alric asked about that ethereal dream come to reality, Krista Hegel.

  “Krista,” he sighed in exquisite misery.

  She had entered the car broken and distraught; she left brave and determined. Both times Alric thought his heart would splinter like the ice branches.

  She had sobbed in Braun’s arms all the way to the café near the Château de Caen, and Braun, awkward but well-meaning stiff that he was, allowed her tears to soak his splendid uniform. And then: on the way back to GH, she sat with that beautiful head lifted, face freshened to a pink-and-cream glow, resolute to enter the place that hope had abandoned.

  He watched the swastika. Alric’s father, a resolute supporter of the crumbling Wehrmacht arm of the German military, staunchly anti-Nazi, staunchly pro–Admiral Wilhelm Canaris, under whom Father had served in the Reichsmarine, on the battleship Schlesien . . . Father would have had something to say about the miserable job that poor creature endured. Alric had learned appalling things from Braun.

  Father would have had something to say about Braun, too, and Alric felt his heart soar with pride. He’d had an inkling of the sort of man he was assigned to, and it came clear after a few rounds of French ale. And Braun later said, appraising Alric with a new eye, that he had no idea what sort of man worked for him. Again, his heart soared. One had to be so very discreet about one’s politics these days, to say nothing of one’s philosophy. It could cost a man his life.

  He yelped at a tap on his window.

  It was a girl. A pretty girl. He unrolled the window, hoping she hadn’t heard the yelp. He nodded, said, dignified, “Fräulein.”

  “Parlez-vous français?” the girl asked.

  He shook his head. “Only a little.”

  “Anglais?”

  He shook his head.

  “I speak some German.” She smiled and gave a little shrug. “Not as nicely.”

  He looked at his watch. “You are aware of the new curfew, fräulein?”

  “Oui.” Her cheeks pinkened, and she gave a shy smile. “But you see, I am here in town from Paris. I am . . . Oh, what is word? . . . Lonely.”

  Gravity lassoed his gaze and he could not stop a lightning glance at her cleavage. He swallowed, felt a mist of perspiration, and looked away. A few nights ago, sure; but he was a man reborn, who now lived his life for Krista Hegel. He suddenly wondered if she was related to Georg.

  He said formally, “Regrettably, I am a new man, fräulein.”

  The girl’s smile disappeared. She buttoned her top button. “So am I.”

  He looked at the courthouse. “My reason to exist is in that godforsaken building.”

  She straightened from the window, following his gaze. “Le mien aussi,” she said softly.

  What a look on that face. Brown eyes large with exquisite anguish, fixed fast on the swastika. She slowly smoothed a windblown lock behind her ear.

  “A guard?” he asked sympathetically.

  She shook her head, eyes filling with tears.

  “A little Frenchman, in there with my boss?”

  Tears fell down her cheeks, and his insides went to mush. What was it with crying women? Yet maybe he had what Braun had, and she could leave all fresh and ready for battle, whatever it was.

  “A prisoner,” she whispered, as if she did not trust her voice to a full word. Tears rolled onto her lips. Oh, the look upon that face; oh, the wretchedness of these times.

  “Exquisite,” he breathed.

  He roused himself.

  “Fräulein,” he said briskly, taking charge as Braun had: “I cannot leave my post, but you will join me at it. Come—converse with me.” He got out of the car, held out his arm, and escorted her to the passenger side.

  “Thank God it runs on petrol,” Wilkie whispered. “But if it runs out on the way to Le Vey, we’ll wish we had a converter box.”

  “Get back, you stand out like a full moon.”

  “Well, if you had let me stop at my apartment . . .”

  “No time.” Rafael’s eyes narrowed. “What’s she doing?”

  They watched Brigitte talk to the driver. This was taking far too long. Idle moments made Rafael nervous. He needed constant action to keep his mind from any unpleasant possibility, like not getting to Le Vey at all.

  “Two o’clock you said . . .”

  “Between one and two. Look—she’s getting in the car!” Wilkie hissed.

  Rafael stared. They weren’t going to—not right there, were they? She was supposed to lure him here. He wondered if things were about to get interesting. He wished he could see better. The streetlight cast a direct glow upon the vehicle, making it difficult to see inside.

  “She’s a bold little thing . . . ,” Wilkie commented, straining for a better look. “I admire her nerve. She’s not involved with anyone, is she?”

  “The pilot.”

  Wilkie sighed. “Figures. Well, what do we do now?”

  “Give her a little time,” Rafael mused. This was the girl he himself had recruited. He knew all about following instinct. Maybe she had something up her sleeve, and he’d not spoil it.

  Sturmbannführer Schiffer roughly grabbed Krista Hegel’s chin, tilting her face up to examine it. It was wet with tears.

  “You disgust me,” he sneered, pushing her away. But rage surged, and he slapped her full across the face. The force sent her sprawling from the table.

  A strangled gurgle from the man hanging in chains. The chains rattled in his feeble attempt to move.

  Schiffer turned to him. “So you have a little in you yet. Good. You’ll find our next—” But he stopped. He stared at the mottled, swollen face. One eye had swollen shut. And the other eye, all the more brilliant blue with red staining the white, was looking at . . .

  He turned to Krista, weeping quietly on the ground, hand to cheek.

  “So,” he said softly.

  He strolled to the girl and gazed down at her, tilting his head, reveling in the new surge of princely power. He lifted his head to gaze at the pilot. He smiled then, and the pilot gave another strangled cry.

  Schiffer knelt next to Krista, eyes never leaving the pilot. He stroked her blonde hair, then sank his fingers into its luxurious softness and made a fist.

  “Who is Greenland?”

  When the two guards outside heard Krista Hegel scream, they stared at each other in shock. Johann Wallen made an involuntary movement toward the door, but the other guard put out his hand.

  “Don’t,” Kreutz whispered. “Not unless you want to fight Russians.”

  “What is he doing to her?” Wallen whispered.

  “She’s upset, that’s all. You know how she is.”

  “It wasn’t that kind of scream.”

  They looked at each other.

  “I could care less what he does to the Yank,” Wallen said. “But I swear . . .”

  “You want to end up in a Russian POW camp, singing the song of the Volga boatmen, that’s your choice.” Kreutz moved back to position.

  Wallen swallowed. He looked at the doorknob. He looked up and down the hallway. It was empty. All interrogations were done for the day, all prisoners returned to their cells except this one. This one was special. Schiffer usually worked with Metzger on special cases, but Metzger wasn’t back from Fort de Romainville. Schiffer had been on his own and seemed to relish it.

  Was she simply reacting to an especially brutal tactic? He hated what she went through. Hated that the most innocent woman he had ever met was locked in a room all day with Schiffer. He knew no one like Krista Hegel. He didn’t know how she managed to retain her humanity with nothing but hell around. She had a soul you could see straight through to God, and when he was around her he didn’t just want to be a better person, he was a better person. He wondered if Schiffer had ever made a pass at her. The thought brought flashes
of red to his vision. Schiffer had raped his last secretary. He knew that for a fact.

  He looked at Kreutz. “One more scream and I’m going in there, Russian front or not. Try to prevent me—I’ll make sure you sing the Volga right at my side.” He eased back into position.

  “Hey, what you do is your business.” Kreutz glanced up and down the hallway. “But whatever you do, I won’t interfere.” He shrugged. “Although I might make it look like I am.”

  Braun did not expect the Gestapo HQ to be so busy at this time of night. There were three manned desks in the cavernous reception room of the former courthouse. Near the desk on the right, seven or eight frightened civilians with haggard faces waited under guard on a few benches. It looked as though they had been waiting for a long time. Why were they here? Waiting for prisoners, or were they prisoners themselves, waiting for processing? They looked so . . . civilian.

  The desk on the left was less busy. A balding, overweight corporal with a pink, jovial face sipped coffee from a teacup and chatted with two soldiers who laughed at something he said. Braun headed for the desk in the center of the room, where he knew any inquiries for personnel were handled. The desk was just in front of the main entrance to the building, a long hallway. Above this entrance hung a large portrait of Hitler. Two guards stood beneath it on either side.

  The thin, anemic-looking fellow behind the desk finished a conversation with a soldier, giving him a piece of paper, a brown medicine bottle, and final instructions to which the soldier listened anxiously. The man waved him off and then turned sour and weary attention to the papers on his desk. He glanced up when Braun approached with Rousseau. His expression did not change, even as he took in Rousseau’s state.

  “Tell Sturmbannführer Schiffer I have a present for him,” Braun said coolly. He rested his briefcase on the desk as he tugged off his gloves.

  “He is not to be disturbed.”

  “For this, Lieutenant, he will be disturbed.”

  “Procedure is procedure. I am sorry . . . sir.” The man displayed a thin-lipped smile that looked more like a sneer. He glanced at Braun’s insignia, then amended the appellation. “Oh, excuse me—Major.”

  The man might have called him Major, but he’d given no accompanying salute, meaning he had inspected the background color of Braun’s insignia and chose to treat him like a civilian. For some, regard for a civilian officer hovered somewhere around regard for a private. Officially, the man’s insolence could get him busted to private. Under Rommel it would.

  “Tell me, Lieutenant . . . Hermann. Do you think perhaps procedure would include . . . Greenland?”

  The thin-lipped smile went sickly. His look slid to Rousseau, and now the Frenchman’s state apparently held more significance. He rose from the desk, murmured something like, “Right away, Major,” and all but ran for the hallway past his desk.

  This action seemed to alert the entire room to the Frenchman at the desk. The low murmur of noise died away completely. The two guards stationed at the front door glanced their way, curious about Rousseau. From these two he had received salutes. Braun took in their gear. Each carried a K98 Mauser rifle slung over his shoulder, each had a leather holster at the belt, likely housing a Walther P38. Same weapons as the guards past the desk, and the other soldiers in the room.

  The corporal at the left-hand desk got up and sauntered over. He couldn’t keep his eyes from Rousseau.

  “Greenland, you say?” He nodded at Rousseau. “I know him. I’ve seen him around. It’s Christmastime for Schiffer. How did you catch him?”

  “I will discuss details of his apprehension with the sturmbannführer.”

  “Sure, sure, of course,” the corporal said, mildly obsequious. To Rousseau he said, “Too bad for you Metzger’s not here. Things are quieter when he’s around. If you get my meaning.” He grinned.

  “Do not speak to my prisoner. Get back to your post.”

  The man glanced at Braun, then sauntered back to his desk.

  Braun felt Rousseau looking at him. He ignored him. He couldn’t bear to see the dapper little Frenchman in such a state, and that by his own hands. Worse, he knew what was in Rousseau’s eyes. The gratefulness infuriated him so, it actually helped Braun do what he had to do.

  Rousseau’s arms were bound behind his back. In his mouth, Braun had stuffed a rolled-up sock, then tightly wrapped the belt of his dressing gown to gag him. It pulled his cheeks back, distending his mouth like a gaping fish. When it came to “roughing him up,” as Rousseau had suggested, Braun could not. Michel had looked so very forlorn that he could not bear to black his eye or bloody his nose. In the end all he did was muss the Frenchman’s hair, an offense surely felt as keenly as a blow.

  Braun spared him a glance. The brown eyes seemed large, disturbingly so, perhaps because he could no longer speak and spoke instead with his eyes. He wanted to say something. Braun looked away.

  Schiffer pulled out a pocketknife and opened it. He yanked Krista’s head back. He touched the blade to her swan-white neck.

  “Don’t touch her,” the pilot croaked, his voice hoarse from hours of screaming. His hands were purple and swollen from pressure. Schiffer knew he’d lose use of them if he stayed that way much longer.

  He put his nose into her neck to breathe her fragrance, suppressed a shudder. Marta had never smelled this good. He traced the tip of the knife up the neck, over the curve of the chin, alongside Krista’s lovely jawbone, past a little mole, up the cheek, to the elegantly shaped brow. She held still, and a tear spilled over from the reddened, swimming, china-blue eyes. He caught the tear with the knifepoint.

  Her eyes were not filled with terror, not like Marta’s. No, righteous little Krista Hegel had eyes only for the pilot, and those eyes were filled with compassion. She shook her head slightly, imploring, and Schiffer looked at the pilot.

  “Who is Greenland?”

  Agony filled the face of the pilot as he stared at the girl.

  Schiffer gave a little flick of the knife.

  The second scream came from the interrogation room at the same time the door at the end of the hallway burst open. Wallen’s rifle came up and he swung to face the door as Kreutz went to a knee and drew a bead on the shouting man clattering down the hall toward them as fast as he could.

  What was happening? A Resistance raid? He was only certain of Krista’s scream. Wallen gripped the rifle, pointing it first at the doorknob, and then, with a frustrated snarl, at the man running pell-mell toward them.

  It was Hermann, the sallow receptionist. Breathless, he waved his hands as he approached. “Greenland!” he gasped. “I have Greenland!” He pushed Wallen aside and pounded on the interrogation door. “Sturmbannführer Schiffer!” He tried the door. It was locked from the inside. He rattled the knob.

  Schiffer screamed, “Go away, you idiot!”

  “Greenland!” Hermann shouted at the keyhole. “I have Greenland!”

  No response.

  Breathing hard, Hermann stared in bewilderment at the keyhole, then at the guards.

  Krista screamed.

  Wallen threw himself against the door, then stepped back and opened fire on the doorknob.

  Gunfire.

  Hauptmann Braun froze, locking eyes with Rousseau.

  After a heartbeat of shocked confusion, the two guards beneath Hitler’s portrait ran off in search of the gunfire. The guards at the front went into defensive positions, assuming a Resistance raid, and trained their rifles outside. The man on the left of the room dove under his desk, the man on the right shouted for order over several civilians who wailed, some shouting names, one of them bolting for the entrance but clubbed back by a soldier.

  What happened? Had a nervous guard opened fire on the clerk, mistaking him for Resistance?

  The shots had come from deep within the facility, likely the basement. Braun jerked his head at Rousseau and they followed in the direction the guards had gone.

  Wilkie peered from the edge of the building. “Did you
hear that?”

  Rafael had heard something, but didn’t know what.

  “I think it was gunfire,” Wilkie whispered. “You don’t think . . . ?”

  “Don’t be stupid—he knows too much.”

  “Then what was it?”

  “I don’t know.” Then, “Look!”

  Brigitte half emerged from the passenger side of the car to wave wildly at them. Then she beckoned them to the vehicle with her wave.

  Rafael cursed.

  “She wants us to—what?” Wilkie squeaked. “Get in the car with him? Is she mad? I suppose you think she knows what she’s doing now.”

  Rafael looked at the Gestapo headquarters. The swastika had a crimson halo about it, an eerie aura created by spotlights proudly highlighting German conquest. He looked at the car, with Brigitte urging them on. “Come on—grab the box.”

  “We were supposed to ambush the man,” Wilkie groaned. “Now we’re having tea with him. Women!”

  Four shots blew the doorknob to frayed splinters. A fragment had flown into Hermann’s arm, and he lay howling on the ground, rolling back and forth, certain he was shot. Wallen stepped over him and kicked the door open.

  He stared through the rifle sight at the bloody mess of the Yank, then at Schiffer against the wall, and then at Krista, head bowed, weeping, a blood-filled welt rising on her neck. Her blouse was torn open. The sight swung back to Schiffer.

  “He isn’t worth the Volga,” Kreutz said at his ear.

  “He confessed, you fool!” Schiffer snarled. He pushed away from the wall, yanking down the sides of his coat. “He just now confessed!”

  “You used her to make him do it.” For the first time, Wallen thought that these Yanks weren’t so bad. “Krista? Are you all right?”

  When Krista lifted her face, his head went dizzy. Her upper lip was swollen and stood out from her teeth like a shelf. A cut at her eyebrow trickled blood in several trails. A wall of red rose before his vision, and he could barely see Schiffer through it.