Night Soldiers ns-1

by Alan Furst

  Eidenbaugh’s mission called for ongoing operations at a low level, so, in response to a coded Limelight message, he continued to harass the schleuhs. But gently, gently. A telephone pole cut down. Children’s jacks with sharpened points strewn about to blow the tires of the telephone repair vehicle. The occasional tree felled across the road. Which halted supply columns while convoy troops plodded through the snowy woods, making sure there wasn’t a nasty surprise around the curve. There was no ambush, just a tree, but it kept the Germans nervous, kept them busy, kept them frustrated. What they were getting, that winter, were pranks, at a level calculated to exclude reprisal against civilians. The Cambras maquis blew up the coeurs d’aguilles, metal castings that enabled the switching of locomotives from track to track. They pry-barred rails apart so that a locomotive plowed up hundreds of ties as it derailed, then left a charge behind for the railroad crane that would arrive to put the damage right. But only a small charge, meant to damage a wheel, to keep the huge thing out of action for a week.

  They also, under Eidenbaugh’s close direction, recruited new members. Ulysse, in their second meeting-at a commercial traveler’s hotel between Belfort and Epinal-altered the KIT FOX mission by relieving Eidenbaugh from any further attempt to install a courrier. That assignment had been an error-Eidenbaugh had all he could do to operate his own small group and find and train new maquisards.

  He got all sorts.

  There were soldiers of fortune-called condottieri in traditional intelligence parlance-former criminals who hoped to make their fortunes in wartime targets of opportunity. There were everyday citizens, who had held themselves out of the fighting until they saw which way the wind was blowing and now rushed to get in on things before it was too late. Service in the underground, they now saw, would count professionally after the war. Such types were called, with some contempt, naphtalenes-mothballs. Meanwhile the Cambras maquis-the original group in the immediate area, lest anyone forget-strutted about grandly with cigarettes stuck in one corner of the mouth, eyes well slitted, and Stens slung diagonally across the back, mountain style.

  Mountain style. Better because it left the hands free, enabling one to move swiftly and safely on the treacherous paths, better for riding a horse or a mule, and better because that was the way it had always been done there, since the time the village ancestors had slung muskets across their backs and gone off to fight as chasseurs, mountain troops, in the Grande Armee of Napoleon. Against the ancestors of the very Germans they were fighting in 1944.

  You had to learn the mountains. The new recruits, installed on straw mattresses throughout the houses of the village, were certainly patriotic and surely brave, but they were flatlanders, ignorant of the ways of the high forest-the sudden blizzards, the white mist that struck a man virtually blind. They had to be trained, and the Cambras maquis were pleased to take on the training mission.

  One day in late January, Daniel Vau and La Brebis took two of the new recruits-Christophe, the nephew of the old loon who’d built a house up on a neighboring mountain, and Fusari, a dark-skinned Corsican from St.-Die-out on practice maneuvers. The objective was to teach them some mountain lore and to familiarize them with the network of deer trails that ran through the forest between the road and the village. The day was crisp and cold, the sky bright, a good morning to be in the forest, and Daniel Vau and La Brebis traveled down the path at great speed, testing the stamina of their pupils by setting a fast pace and, consequently, leaving them far behind. A good lesson, let them struggle. They had to learn to be part goat in this region, it could well save their lives. The two maquisards would glide down a section of path, then wait for the other two, who would arrive panting and red-faced. Just as they came into view Daniel would say, “Rest period over. Time to go,” and set out again, leaving the novices to get along as best they could, leg muscles twanging from the shock of a downhill lope.

  The German officer-no one really saw his rank-was bird-watching on his day off. Daniel and La Brebis came around a corner of the path and there he was, attended by a bored Feldwebel, probably his driver, who leaned against a tree and picked his nails while his superior alternately peered into the sky through binoculars and consulted a field guide on birds of the southern Vosges. He was in search of a species of mountain hawk often seen in the region, which concerned the villagers only insofar as it competed for the available stock of brown hare. The two Germans and the two maquisards saw each other at about the same moment and, for a long second, they froze and nothing happened. It took each of them some time to realize they were in the presence of enemies because they were engaged in innocent pastimes-simply not at war that day. It was less than strange to meet a French boy and girl on a mountain path and all would have been well but for the Stens. The officer, a little to one side of the path for a better view up through the pines, got a good look at the weapons, and it wasn’t very long before he came to understand exactly what they meant.

  There followed a moment of comedy: the officer scrabbling at the flap of his holster, the Feldwebel attempting to grab his rifle-resting butt down against a tree-and knocking it over, Daniel and Brebis having the most difficult time of all, trying to struggle free of their slung weapons. It took them a hopelessly long time to do so and, in fact, they never did manage it. The officer drew his pistol, thumbed the safety off, shot each of them once, then ran away down the trail, the Feldwebel galloping after, dragging his rifle along the ground by its strap.

  Khristo heard the shots and dove off the path, landing on his belly with the machine pistol pointing in the direction of the gunfire. Fusari he could not see. He heard, below him, the sounds of flight and a series of moans. It took him a minute to sort it out: someone had fired, someone else had run away. Since those who fled were headed downhill, toward the road, he assumed they were the enemy and that the moaning was coming from Daniel or La Brebis, one or both of whom were hit.

  Both. He circled wide of the trail and came in from the flank; Fusari arrived from the other direction at about the same time. Khristo gestured down the trail and Fusari took off in that direction, crouched, moving quickly and gracefully. It was clear to Khristo that he was not new at this.

  The guide to birds of the southern Vosges lay open on the ground, along with Daniel Vau’s Sten gun. Daniel lay flat on his stomach. He looked at Khristo, a plea in his eyes: please help me. La Brebis seemed worse off, lying on her back across Daniel’s lower legs, head hung backward, treading her feet like a nursing cat. She had covered her face with her hands and was moaning softly every few seconds.

  “Be careful with her,” Daniel said.

  “Are you hurt badly?”

  He shook his head that he didn’t know. “She has my legs pinned,” he said. “It’s somewhere down there.”

  “Is there a doctor in the village?”

  “A midwife.”

  He circled Daniel and knelt by La Brebis and gently pulled her hands away. It was very bad. She had been shot in the face. Just below and to the outside of the right nostril, a red bead of flesh extruded from a puffy circle shaded blue at its exterior edge. Suddenly, she grabbed hold of his wrists and gagged. He realized she was swallowing blood, shook one of his hands loose and raised her head. “Thank you,” she breathed.

  “Can you spit it out?”

  She tried but couldn’t manage, a string of red saliva hanging from her lower lip. He took his other hand back and cleaned her mouth, then wiped away the water that ran from her eyes. “It is the wound,” she said. “I do not weep.”

  “I know,” he said. Very gently, he opened her mouth. There was a swollen ridge across the top of her palate. He reached around her head and probed gently in the hair at the base of her skull, looking for an exit wound, but couldn’t find anything. God only knew where the bullet was, somewhere inside her face.

  He realized that Fusari was standing above him, breathing hard. “They’re gone,” he said. “I heard the car take off.”

  Khristo nodded. It meant they wo
uld be back in force-perhaps in an hour or a little less. He said to Daniel, “I don’t want to move her. Is she crushing your legs?”

  “I don’t feel anything,” he said.

  “Can you move your feet? Your toes?”

  “No.”

  His heart sank. Fusari swore softly.

  From the trail above him, he heard running footsteps. The sound of the shots had apparently reached them-the cold air carried sound much as water did.

  Lucien-the American-and Gilbert came galloping down the path a few moments later. The former was pale and shaken. Gilbert carried a Sten and a tattered old book with its covers missing.

  “What happened?” Lucien asked, breathless.

  Daniel told him.

  La Brebis laid her head back in Khristo’s arms. One side of her face had swollen so that her right eye was a slit, and she was beginning to struggle for breath as the damaged passages swelled shut.

  Khristo spoke to Gilbert, who was hunting through his book, a medical manual belonging to the village for many years, used primarily to set broken bones and to treat burns. “Is there a doctor?”

  “In Epinal,” Gilbert answered.

  “You better get him,” Khristo said. La Brebis was dying.

  Lucien spoke. “We must bring them down there,” he said.

  “No,” Gilbert said. “It’s impossible. The schleuhs will be all over the place-and they’ll be here soon enough. They’ve seen the Stens.”

  “Where is the truck?” Lucien said.

  “By the logging. On the other side of the road.”

  “Is there gasoline?”

  “A little.”

  “Let’s go,” he said.

  “Did you not hear me?” Gilbert asked.

  “It doesn’t matter. We’re going. Christophe and Fusari, take La Brebis. Gilbert and I will follow with Daniel.”

  “Lucien,” Gilbert said, grim, “they’ll get us all.”

  “No they won’t.”

  Daniel said, “I am sorry, Lucien. We didn’t …”

  They waited while Lucien ran back up the path and warned the village that a German search party would be coming. The remainder of the maquis and the new recruits took the arms and ammunition and moved up the mountain. Alceste Vau was not told of his brother’s wound; he would have demanded to accompany them to Epinal and there were already too many of them for the old truck. When Lucien returned, they carried the wounded down the path, across the road, and loaded them carefully into the back of the truck. They covered themselves with a canvas tarp while Gilbert drove, alone in the cab.

  The ride down the mountain road seemed to go on forever. The brakes were virtually useless on the steep curves and every time Gilbert downshifted, the flywheel screamed and threatened to blow the transmission all over the road. The truck swayed and bounced, Khristo lay on his side in the darkness beneath the tarpaulin and tried to keep La Brebis’s head from moving with the truck’s motion, but it was a losing battle. In the beginning, she cried out when they were jolted by a downshift, but as they went farther down the mountain she made no sound at all, and Khristo could feel her skin growing cold. Let her die, he thought. His training told him to sacrifice one in order to save another-and to stop might put all their lives in jeopardy.

  But this was Lucien’s decision, he realized, and finally he shifted over next to him and, raising his voice above the truck’s roaring motor, said, “Lucien, Brebis is asphyxiating. She won’t make it.”

  Lucien’s voice answered a moment later. “Are you sure?”

  “No. But feel how cold she is.”

  “It could be shock.”

  “It could be, but I think it’s her windpipe closing up.” When there was no immediate answer, he tried to help Lucien make a decision. “We can still save Daniel, if we continue.”

  “No,” Lucien said. He crawled along the truck bed, then reached out from beneath the tarp and pounded on the rear window of the cab. Gilbert slowed-they could feel him pumping the brakes gingerly-then pulled off the road onto the grassy shoulder. The truck was canted at a dangerous angle, and Gilbert raced the engine so it would not stall. On the other side of the road a German staff car and a truckload of soldiers tore past, but they paid no heed to the truck by the side of the road.

  “Hold her head,” Lucien said.

  Khristo cradled her head in his lap and pressed his hands against the sides of her face. Fusari crawled over next to him and raised the edge of the tarp to let in some light. Lucien reached into his pocket and brought out a cheap fountain pen. He unscrewed the two halves, then broke off the nib end and cleaned up the shattered edge as best he could with a knife. He pulled his shirttail out and wiped ink from the open tube he’d fashioned. Khristo could see that his hands were shaking.

  “Ready?” Lucien said.

  Khristo nodded.

  “Open her mouth.”

  Khristo pulled her teeth apart. He could see Lucien sweating in the cold air as he pressed Brebis’s tongue down with his left index finger. When he forced the tube down the back of her throat, the pain brought her back from stupor and she screamed, a hoarse, choking sound that made Khristo shudder. When Lucien withdrew his hand there was blood on it.

  Lucien wasted no time. He pounded on the cab window again, and Gilbert moved back out on the road while Fusari resettled the tarp and they were in darkness once again. La Brebis tried to move her hand to her mouth, but Khristo held tightly to her wrist. “Just breathe,” he whispered by her ear. “Can you?” After a moment, she moved her head up and down to tell him that she could.

  In Epinal, they heard the sounds of other vehicles and bicycle bells and the truck slowed, bumping along the cobbled streets. At last, Gilbert made as if to park, swinging over toward the curb. Then, suddenly, he took off quickly, with all the acceleration the old engine could muster. Khristo let go of the wounded girl and found the grip of his machine pistol.

  But nothing happened. They drove for several minutes, then rolled to a stop. Khristo peeked beneath the tarp and saw the Epinal railroad station. At Lucien’s direction, Fusari checked out the other side and reported that Gilbert was entering the Hotel de la Gare, which was, Khristo knew, to be found across the street from virtually every railway station in France. Some minutes later Gilbert appeared at the back of the truck and spoke in an undertone. “There was a geste car parked in front of the doctor’s office-they know there’s been a gunshot wound. I’m going to drive around to the back of the hotel. Once we get there, move quickly and get them inside.”

  The truck inched down a narrow alley, cornered, and stopped. They threw the tarp off and saw two men in dark suits with pistols in their hands. Khristo immediately armed his weapon and covered them.

  “What’s this?” Lucien asked.

  “Pimps,” Gilbert answered, climbing up on the truck bed to help with the wounded. “We’re at the Epinal whorehouse. It’s the only place in town where the doctor comes-and no questions asked. They’ve already sent one of the girls to get him.”

  They carried Brebis and Daniel through the small bar that adjoined the lobby, then upstairs to a dingy room with faded wallpaper. A mustached man in long underwear jumped out of the bed when they entered the room. “See here,” he said.

  “Take a walk,” one of the pimps answered, showing the man his pistol, “this is for France.”

  A heavy woman in a dressing gown appeared as they lowered the wounded to the rumpled bed. Without a word she handed the customer a sheaf of ten-franc notes. He, in turn, drew himself up to his full dignity, baggy underdrawers and all. “Never!” he said, with great solemnity. Slapped the money back into the woman’s hand, saluted crisply, and marched from the room.

  February, in the mountains, was like a white island. Cut off from time, lifeless, inert. A place where snow showered from the pine boughs, a place where the wind died and the water froze to perfect crystalline ice.

  In Cambras, Khristo Stoianev kept to himself. He lived, like the rest of the village, on turn
ips and rutabagas. Sometimes there was bread. Most of the recruits had been sent home-with instructions to return after the March thaw-because the village foodstocks could not support them. But Khristo and the Corsican, Fusari, were asked to stay.

  The shooting of La Brebis and Daniel Vau continued to reverberate in Cambras and not in comfortable ways. They had both survived, for which everyone was thankful. But Daniel had been wounded in the spine, would never walk again, and Gilbert’s young wife had taken this very badly. She had been, everyone supposed, Daniel’s lover, and her broken heart showed for all to see. This situation oppressed Gilbert’s domestic life to a painful degree and he was rumored to have shifted his sleeping quarters to the bed of the strange servant girl who lived in the house.

  The doctor had arrived within minutes that day at the Hotel de la Gare, a white-haired professeur of a man who wore an old-fashioned silk vest beneath his suit. He had patched up La Brebis as best he could, then ordered both wounded removed to a convent near the town of Vittel, some twenty miles distant, and there operated on Daniel Vau. Both had remained and were said to be recovering as well as could be expected. The family of La Brebis-the Bonet clan-muttered continually of revenge on her behalf. Gilbert and Lucien resisted, reluctant to attack the Germans in this way, fearing what they would do to the village in return. The murder of an individual German soldier had elsewhere in France been repaid by the killing of more than a hundred civilians. A high price for the Bonet honor.

  But the stalemate could not last indefinitely and late one afternoon an aristocratic Frenchman appeared in Cambras: tall, hawk-faced, silver-haired, even in February wearing a fine topcoat over his shoulders like a cape. He was accompanied by a bodyguard called Albert, a watchful man with lank brown hair parted in the middle, a cafe waiter’s mustache, and eyes the color of the winter sea. He carried a shortbarreled pump shotgun, a weapon never before seen in the village-what birds you could get with that-and wore a Walther pistol in an armpit holster. The Killer, they called him, when he wasn’t around to hear. He reminded Khristo of his past.