by Ward Just
It won't run, the mayor said. We thought you could help us. Americans know everything about automobiles.
Where did you get it? Fred asked.
There have been Germans here, the mayor replied.
And where are they now?
They went away, the mayor said.
Where did they go? Axel asked.
East, the mayor said. They said they were going east.
Valhalla, Fred said, and one of the men laughed unpleasantly.
It took a minute to open the hood and another few minutes to arrange the lanterns so that they could see the engine. Fred asked for a wrench and began to hum to himself, testing wires and prodding the engine's parts. While he was working, Axel looked into the interior of the car, but there was nothing of interest. It was just an abandoned scout car, in near-pristine condition. There were no signs of battle on it. Fred was inspecting the carburetor under the light, turning it this way and that. He was humming Blue Skies and grinning while he tinkered. At last he nodded and tightened a screw and replaced the carburetor. The mayor and the men in the shadows were watching him intently, saying nothing. When Fred asked one of them to start the car, it fired up immediately with a pop-pop-pop, then settled into a low rumble. Fred stepped back and cleaned his hands on a piece of cloth, still humming Berlin.
We are indebted to you, the mayor said.
It's nothing, Fred said.
You were a mechanic in America?
No, Fred said. As you say, all Americans understand about automobiles. Introduce us to your friends.
What is your destination? one of them said.
East, Fred said. We too are headed east.
Where the Germans are, he said.
That's right, Axel said.
I suppose it's necessary, the mayor said. But it's a waste.
Why are you here? said a voice from the shadows.
There was an invasion, Axel said. In Normandy. There are thousands of Americans in France now and more on the way.
Why are you here? the voice repeated.
We took a detour, Fred said. What's your name?
Gaston, he said after a moment. Do you have a cigarette for us?
Fred shook cigarettes out of his pack and handed them around and lit them with a Zippo. He took one himself and handed the pack to Gaston.
We must go now, the mayor said nervously.
Where are we going? Axel said.
East, Gaston said. I thought you said you were going east.
The château, the mayor said quickly. The count insists that you spend the night with him in the château. You will be very comfortable there. Monsieur le Comte has prepared rooms and a fine supper and is pleased to welcome you, two Americans who have wandered into his domain. It's all arranged.
What do you think? Fred said in English.
Better there than here, Axel said.
It's a piece of luck, he said. A hot meal and a bed. Why not? Do you suppose there's a countess, too?
Probably, Axel said What's a count without a countess?
Maybe there's a little contessa, too, Fred said.
Speak French! Gaston said loudly. This is France. We speak French here.
Axel said to the mayor, What's the matter with your friend?
He's all right, the mayor said. He can't understand what you say and it makes him suspicious. We can go now. It's best that we do.
Goodbyes were perfunctory. Outside, dusk still lingered. The mayor led them back up the road beside the river until they came to the church. When he turned to face them, his expression showed almost fatherly concern.
He said, You are welcome to remain here. It's safer than in the East.
General Patton wouldn't like it, Axel said.
In your blue trousers you look like one of us, the mayor said. And you speak very well, although your accents are not of this region. Alsace, perhaps, or the Jura. Have you ever worked in a vineyard?
Alas, Fred said. Patton shoots deserters.
You shouldn't smile, the mayor said. It's not funny.
Don't you want the Nazis out of France? Fred said.
The mayor looked at him blankly and shrugged. There are no Nazis here, he said. Do you see any Nazis?
We thank you, Axel said. But it's impossible.
The château, Fred began.
The young woman will show you the way, the mayor said.
And that was when they saw the girl on the bicycle, poised to pedal away up the hill. She was wearing a red beret and a summer dress that looked a size too small. She stared at them with an unfriendly expression that seemed to say, Keep your distance. It was evident she intended to keep hers. Axel wondered what she had heard about American soldiers. In the gathering darkness they could not see her clearly, except for the unfriendly expression. She motioned impatiently.
Before they got the Jeep in gear she was halfway up the hill, pedaling furiously in the direction of the château, gaunt against the night sky, dull lights within. When they pulled up behind her, she slowed down. The way was steep and the road rutted. Fred banged his hand against the wheel and said something obscene, then reached under the dash and extracted his little Leica camera, squeezing off two quick shots. He had only the headlights to work with, but any photograph was worth the chance. She was a sexy girl but unapproachable, lost in her own thoughts. Still, in a remote village in the middle of a war, her appearance seemed miraculous. She never looked back but stared straight ahead, standing up on her pedals, working hard climbing the last few hundred yards. In the yellow glare of the headlights her dress was transparent, and as she swayed from side to side it was evident that she was beautifully built and supple as an athlete. But she didn't look like a contessa. She didn't look like any of the hungry village girls the Americans had seen in the past two years, girls so lonely they took suicidal risks in pursuit of what they wanted; or so terrified and broken down they refused to take any risks at all.
This girl slowed down and then stopped, leaning forward on her bicycle and sliding off. The back of her dress was soaked with sweat, though she did not seem winded. She stood with her back to them, her head raised as if waiting for a summons; and then she ran her long fingers through her hair, looking into an invisible mirror. Fred turned off the engine and they waited in silence, the girl garish in the glare of the headlights. In the thick night air they could smell the perfume of the vineyards and something else besides, the French girl's ripe sweat.
She parked the bicycle at the base of a wide stone porch, pointed at the front door, and disappeared around the corner of the château.
'Bye, Fred said.
Don't forget to write.
French bitch.
They waited a moment in the silence and then alighted, carrying their weapons. A servant met them at the door and conducted them to adjoining rooms on the second floor. He said there was hot water if they wanted to bathe and clean clothes in the closets. All normal sizes, he said with a smile, calculating Fred's height. Take what you need, the servant said. Dinner will be informal. The count expects you downstairs in one hour.
While Fred drew a bath, Axel went to the window and looked over the village and the countryside far below, so peaceful in the moonlight, the terrain reminding him of the Blue Ridge near Middleburg. The hills rolled back in various shades of gray and dark blue, fading at the horizon. He listened for the far-off thunder of artillery but heard nothing except the movement of insects and the occasional call of a bird. The birds wheeled and pitched, watched by a hawk circling at great height. A nocturnal spider as big as a thumbnail sat on the edge of its web in the corner of the window casement; and when Axel moved the web it seemed to arch its back, poised for a reconnaissance. Fred said something from the bathroom, but Axel could not make out what it was and did not reply. He was watching the spider, moved now to a defensive position as he continued to tug at the web. All this time the birds rose and fell, pursued by the hawk.
Looking up, Axel saw the battlements of the château, a sick
le moon sitting like a crown on one of the turrets. There were no lights anywhere below. He wondered how it would be to spend the war in this remote village, working the vineyards and otherwise leading a blameless rural life; and later to appear in Patton's tent with a harrowing tale of capture and torture by Nazi SS. No one would believe it, though. They would think it more OSS la-di-da, Behl and Greene finding themselves in a petit château in ancient Aquitaine, avoiding the war, shuttling between the bedroom and the wine cellar, overseen by comely countesses who were eager to share their bodies while the rest of the Third Army was face down in the mud. There were remote villages all over France that had avoided involvement in the war; they avoided it the way you did the eyes of a surly stranger in a dark alley.
No horseshit from this bastard, Fred said from the bathroom.
What do you mean?
How do we know who he is?
He's Monsieur le Comte.
He's probably a collaborator, Fred said. Living it up in his château while France burns. A profiteer selling his filthy wine to the German army at exorbitant prices.
Water hot enough for you, Fred?
Fuck you, Fred said.
Plan to give him a civics lesson, Fred? Tell him what's what back in the arsenal of democracy? Because if you do, please save it for after dinner. I think, from the smell of things, that he's serving roast lamb.
Axel went in to bathe, thinking about the girl on the bicycle, the look she had given him before beginning her trek to the château. She seemed to him to be the pulse of this lost, forgotten, unsupervised province in which so much seethed beneath the surface. Its obscurity gave rise to an excess of imagination, as if they were at the outermost edges of the known world. He and Fred were the law here. They stepped lightly but they took what they wanted. They were guests of the nation but also the advance party of the liberation. They did not take orders. No authority touched them except the alien German authority. The girl's hostile look infuriated and excited him. Surely this was not a random encounter but something fated; otherwise, why were they directed to this place? Axel dressed and returned to the open window. He watched the spider move forward from the margins of its web to the center, sure, swift strides and then a pause. The spider was moving forward like the point man of an infantry company. Axel tugged at the web, still thinking about the French girl and wondering when he would see her again.
It was then that he heard a familiar sound and looked out over the dark village. He watched the twin taillights of an automobile ascend the road from which they had come, hesitate at the top of the hill, then disappear. The night was so still that he could easily hear the rumble of the engine, and he knew at once that it was the German scout car. Greatly uneasy, he wondered where it was bound and why. The car's rumble vanished and he resumed his watch over the spider, now only inches from his thumb. He was remembering the way the girl moved and thinking about the scout car and deciding to say nothing to Fred about either one, when the insect lunged. The spider was quick but Axel was quicker and when next he looked at the web, the spider was gone. The sickle moon had slipped behind the château, the birds had disappeared, and it was too dark to see the hawk. He was suddenly fatigued. Then Fred was in the doorway, gesturing impatiently at the clothes closet. It was time for dinner.
Dressed in wool sweaters and English slacks, they arrived downstairs at the appointed time. The château was damp and chilly despite the fire roaring in the huge hearth. The count was standing before it, staring glumly into the flames. Axel and Fred exchanged glances. Whatever they expected—Louis XIV in a powdered wig, the Marquis de Sade in platinum underwear—it was not what they got. The Frenchman was young, younger even than they were, and half a head shorter. He looked like an American college boy from the Ivy League, handsomely turned out in a blazer and ascot and gray flannel trousers. His hair was short and curly and he was smoking a Gauloise. The war seemed to have done him no harm; he was as plumped and groomed as a pet partridge, and as high-strung. The count had a tremor that was not college-age.
They shook hands and Axel handed him a carton of Lucky Strikes, which he accepted with a nervous laugh. In Europe in 1944 a carton of Luckies could buy you about anything you wanted, even, or especially, the things that were out of reach for a young count with an old château. When he announced that he spoke English poorly and would prefer to converse in French, Axel and Fred agreed at once; the count visibly relaxed then. The servant arrived to ask about drinks, indicating the sideboard, with its thicket of bottles. There looked to be an international selection of spirits, including Kentucky bourbon. They took malt whiskey neat. The count drank schnapps.
You found your way, he said, smiling dryly to acknowledge the absurdity of the question. No one could miss the château.
We had a guide, Fred said.
An extraordinary girl, Axel added.
Yes, he said. She's very beautiful, isn't she? Her name is Nadège. Her father manages the vineyard, as his father did before him, and his grandfather. She helps out in the kitchen while her husband is away.
Where is her husband? Fred asked.
He's a soldier, the count said sadly. She calls him a patriot. He was commander of a Maquis unit, captured near Orléans in 1942 and sent to one of the German camps. He's there now, somewhere in the East. Probably Poland. Isn't that where their camps are? She gets word from him from time to time and she is able to pass messages. The conditions in the camp are dreadful, but he's alive, it seems. They're very close, Nadège and her husband. She's only waiting for his release and then they'll return to their farm.
It won't be long now, Fred said.
Are you certain?
Positive, Fred said.
Why are you positive?
Because Patton's almost at the Rhine. The Germans have had it. Morale is shot. The Russians are slaughtering them in the East. We'll be home for Christmas. So will Nadège's husband, if he's still alive.
Axel listened to this without comment. They knew nothing of the course of the war, and little enough about military operations. Their work in France involved identifying targets for sabotage and then organizing the sabotage. They arranged weapons shipments. The work was dangerous but it involved finesse as much as it involved anything. They had had close encounters but had never been wounded or even shot at. They worked with partisans who were killed, and some who were captured and tortured and their families tortured also. That was a bad bargain and required tremendous fortitude, along with indifference, and they never asked about it. They worked in the shadows, trying to gather intelligence and satisfy London. So Fred didn't know what he was talking about, but that didn't stop him.
He was looking around the room as he spoke, embellishing the strength of the Allied forces. The room was so large and ill-lit that the corners were in shadows. Tapestries concealed the stone walls, and long candles threw little darts of light. The chill was easing, though perhaps that was only the whiskey. They could smell the lamb cooking.
I hope you are right, the count said.
Have no doubt, Fred said.
I'll try, the count answered.
Fred said, Why weren't you occupied by the Nazis?
We are very far out of the way here, the count said. We don't have many visitors of any kind. There would be no reason to occupy this village. We're very poor. There's nothing for them here.
Your château, Axel began.
He shrugged, as if the château, too, was poor and therefore of little interest.
No Germans at all? Fred asked.
The count took a patient sip of his schnapps and looked into the fire. He said, Germans are everywhere in my country. We are a defeated nation, after all. We live day to day. As they say in your country, beggars can't be choosers. A squad of them came here last month, looked around, and went away. They did not bother me. I think they were on the run from General Patton and fetched up here by accident. I believe the people of the village frightened them, so they did not stay.
Came and went,
did they? Fred said.
They were wise to leave quickly, because Nadège was planning to kill them all. She was organizing an—ambush. The count raised his eyebrows and laughed his dry laugh.
Would she have?
Oh, yes, the count said. Certainly. She knows all about military operations. She too is what she calls a patriot. For a while she trained with her husband.
Good at ambushes, is she? Fred said. His tone was belligerent, and the count did not reply. She was standoffish with us, Fred went on. Does she dislike Americans, too? Or only Germans?
The count was silent, turning now to the fire and stabbing at it unsuccessfully with a poker. Axel realized then that he was much older than he looked. His skin had an unhealthy pallor and his hands were not those of a young man. His blazer was threadbare and looked to be a size too large. His curly hair could have been dyed.
She knows no Americans, the count said.
Tell us about the Germans, Axel said.
The count paused for a moment's reflection. He said, One of them was injured and I dressed his wounds here. I have had some medical training. The wounds were not serious but they were very painful. Nadège wanted to kill him in his bed but I told her that if she did, the Germans would find out and then discover the identity of her husband and it would go badly for him in Poland. They were just boys in a strange country. Let them go in peace, I said. And she did.
You treated a German soldier?
Of course, he said.
Why did you do that?
He was injured. I was able to help him.
You repaired him, Fred said. Put him back together again.
I did what I could, the count said. It wasn't much. The operation was very painful for him and we had no proper anaesthesia, so we used this. The count held out the glass of schnapps, tilting it back and forth. His hand trembled slightly but it did not seem to be fear, because he was speaking normally, as any man would in his own house with guests.
