by A. D. Winch
Once she had finished reading, Granddad Benjamin tore the writing off, dipped it into his stew and put it in his mouth.
“Jerome, you are disgusting. That’s been down on your trousers!”
“Fibre,” he explained and smiled the biggest smile that Mémé had seen since they had arrived.
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Chapter 5 – Home Again
The snow continued to fall heavily over Paris, and the streets were still empty. Ursula had to help Claude push his shopping trolley through the rising drifts. They shoved and heaved as they crossed the road and approached the Benjamins’ apartment block.
“Do you have a bath? I’d love a bath. I haven’t had one in months,” Claude asked as they neared the building’s door.
“Yes,” replied Ursula.
“Can I use it?”
Ursula erred for second before replying, “Of course you can.”
They parked the trolley next to the secured door and stood in front of it.
“Open it then,” Claude told her.
“I can’t. It’s a new door, and I don’t have a key.”
“You could ring the bell and ask them to buzz you in,” Claude joked, pointing towards a panel with all the residents’ names and doorbells.
Ursula smiled falsely.
“Don’t worry, fillette. It shouldn’t be a problem,” he replied and drank some more red wine.
The trolley was overflowing with plastic bags containing items from Claude's life. He balanced the wine carefully in the child’s seat and rummaged through them until he found the one he wanted. In spite of the cold, Claude removed his worn gloves and gave them to Ursula. He placed a blue plastic bag on top of the pile, took out a large match box and removed a paper clip and a bent credit card from inside.
“We’ll try this first,” he said and waved the credit card.
The slim plastic slid between the door and the frame with ease but then it jammed. Claude pushed against the handle and the door as he jiggled the credit card, but nothing happened.
“Plan B,” he said and started to unbend the paperclip. “Keep watch, this won’t be quick.”
Claude bent down to the lock, farted, and then pushed the paperclip into the hole. Ursula stood behind him and watched the street. When the smell reached her nostrils, she walked forward and stood on the spot where she had left her motorbike on her return to Saint-Denis.
It wasn’t here now. Fresh snow lay on the ground, hiding any trace of where the motorbike may have vanished to. She wondered who had taken it and whether it could be traced back to her. She hoped that it had been stolen but feared that the police had impounded it.
Behind her, she could hear Claude swearing as he pushed and pulled the paperclip in the lock. Fortunately, there was no one out. It was too early and when people did wake up most would stay inside; only children would come out to play. They would enjoy the fact that school would be cancelled.
She remembered a few years previously, when it had happened to her. She had spent all day with her friends building snowmen, throwing snowballs and exploring their new polar region. Only when Mémé had forced her to come in for some hot soup, had she realised that all her clothes were wet through and she was actually very cold.
“Yes!” shouted Claude.
Ursula spun around, and Claude was holding open the door.
“Push my trolley inside, and I’ll join you,” he said.
Ursula did as she was asked. It was just as cold in the main entrance, but Ursula felt warmer because she was nearer to her home. The light still flickered and the missing plaster, where Eric had kicked the wall, had not been repaired but she didn’t care.
“What floor do you live on, fillette?” asked Claude, who had remained by the open door.
“Seventh.”
“Then wheel my trolley into the lift, press seven but don’t go up without me.”
Ursula nodded. She watched as Claude pressed all the doorbells on the entrance panel, then pressed them again and then once more.
“What are you doing?” Ursula asked.
“Tipping the odds in our favour. Let’s go!” he shouted and ran to her.
The door closed, and they were squashed inside the lift. A bulb in the ceiling shone feebly, giving just enough light to see the tags that covered the walls. As they ascended, the smell inside the lift got worse. By the time the doors opened, Ursula was desperate for fresh air. She couldn’t just blame Claude; she knew that she wasn’t smelling like roses herself.
They wheeled the trolley onto the seventh floor but stayed by the lift. The block was no longer quiet as Claude's doorbell ringing had woken people. Neighbours were moving about their apartments, babies were crying, children were asking questions and everyone was moaning about being woken up. Ursula and Claude stayed by the lift. There was no light and they were concealed in the darkness.
“Where is your grandparents’ apartment?” whispered Claude.
Ursula pointed behind him and said, “We have to go there and turn left. It's the last apartment.”
“What side is it on?”
“There is only one. There is nothing on the other side a view of the other blocks.”
“Is that the only way in?”
“No, I can get in from the roof and the balcony.”
Claude wheeled his trolley back and forward as he thought. The wheels squeaked, and Ursula was concerned that the sound would bring people into the corridor.
After a few minutes, he stopped and took a large swig from the carton of wine.
“Are your grandparents well liked around here?”
“Yes,” said Ursula, and Claude belched.
“In that case I have an idea. From this point onwards, I am your Uncle Claude, okay?”
Ursula looked at his dirty pale skin and compared his skin colour to her own. She gave him a disbelieving look.
“I’m the white sheep of the family,” Claude joked and then told her what they were going to do.
It was colder on the roof. There was nowhere to shelter from the driving snow, and it chilled Ursula to her bones. She looked in all directions, but she could see very little, apart from snowflakes and blurred images beyond them. The roof was covered in virgin snow and was as slippery as an ice rink. With her first step, Ursula lost her footing and ended up on her backside. She got up and gingerly walked towards one of the roof corners. As she neared, she crouched down onto her hands and knees. It was hard to see where the roof ended and the sky began. If she slipped now, and went over the edge, she would never see her grandparents or Eric or Alexander again.
It felt safer to move on all fours, but the snow made her legs feel freezing, and her gloves were soon sodden. When she arrived at the roof corner, she brushed away the snow until she found the cross she had once painted. The cross was important as it meant that her grandparents’ balcony was right below. She continued to brush away the snow until there was none surrounding her. In doing so, she revealed a smooth sheet of ice. Ursula tried to crack it with her fist, but all she achieved was a bruised hand. She then kicked at it with her heel, but it was solid, and her boot just slid off. If she could not grip the roof without slipping, she would not be able to fall safely onto her grandparents’ balcony. Normally, she would have arced down from a handstand but this was impossible in these conditions.
Claude had gone to press all the buzzers again, but this time he shouted, “Emergency! The Benjamins. Help!” to anyone who answered.
Ursula waited in the snow, wondering if she had been right to trust him. For all she knew, he could have just walked out of the main entrance and left her. However, she could sense that he wouldn't and that he genuinely wanted to help; as long as he got his hot bath afterwards. Seconds and then minutes ticked by, and the cold from her wet clothing pinched her skin.
From the floor below, she heard Claude make the sound of a siren - it was her signal to jump down. There was no time to waste. She slid onto her stomach and dangle
d her feet over the edge. The wind buffeted her, but she managed to hold herself steady and inched herself backwards and off the roof. Her lower legs were in the air, then her knees and then all her legs up to her hips. At his point, her body weight pulled her down. She tried to grip hold of concrete or brick to control her fall, but her hands just slid off the ice.
Every other time she had jumped from the building, the handstand position gave her a natural arc that pushed her onto the balcony. As she slipped off the roof this time, there was no arc, and she fell vertically like a stone. She kicked her legs towards the building and managed to get them over the balcony wall. When her boots landed on the snowy concrete, she slid forward, cracked the back of the helmet hard against the wall behind her and fell heavily. She lay on the balcony relieved. Her neck was sore from the fall, and she was a little dazed, but she had made it. She lifted her helmet off and let it roll in the snow.
Inside the apartment block, there was a loud commotion, and she could hear Claude shouting.
Claude was standing outside the Benjamins' door banging as hard as he could. The door shook, and lights from within other apartments were turning on.
“Let me in,” shouted Claude at the top of his voice. “Where are my friends? Let me in.”
Slowly, the other doors on the corridor opened and people peaked out.
“Be quiet,” scolded an old lady as she adjusted her hairnet. “We’re trying to sleep.”
“No, Madame” boomed back Claude. “The Americans are in there. They’ve got Ursula and my close friends, the Benjamins, are nowhere to be seen.”
“Which Americans?” asked a tall man, walking down the corridor towards Claude, holding his dressing gown shut against the cold.
“A good question, Monsieur. The Americans who were looking for Ursula. The ones whom we all thought had left. They came back.”
“So?” asked the tall man.
“So? When was the last time you saw the Benjamins? When was it? Five, six, seven weeks ago? Some kind of caring neighbour you are, not checking on the poor elderly.”
The tall man looked a little taken aback and approached Claude. He pushed in front of him and knocked hard on the door.
“Jerome! Madame Benjamin! Are you in there?”
There was no answer, so he banged again but there was still no response. By this time, a small crowd was forming dressed only in their pyjamas and dressing gowns. They were shivering and watching the drama unfold.
The tall man knocked again, but the door remained shut.
“There’s no one there,” he said, “I’m going back to bed. Maybe they’re on holiday.”
It was then that they heard a scream from inside the apartment and Ursula shouting, “Help! Help!”
“Dear God, it’s Ursula,” said the old lady in the hairnet.
The tall man stood side-on to the door. He shoulder barged it but the hinges held and the door stayed closed.
“One minute,” said the old lady. “I have a spare key.”
She scurried into her apartment and returned with a key that she gave to the tall man. The key turned easily in the lock, and the door swung open, but the man stayed outside.
“Help me!” shouted Ursula but it was louder and more urgent this time.
The man pointed at some men who were watching, “Angelo, Vinz, Ahmed, Abdel, Mehmet. You’re coming with me.”
“And you are not going in there without me,” volunteered Claude.
The seven men cautiously entered the apartment. The hallway was empty. Ahmed pushed open the doors to the bathroom and the two bedrooms, but no one was there.
“Help me!”
Ursula’s shout came from the direction of the living room, and the men walked cautiously towards the door. Behind them, the crowd followed and the hallway was soon crowded.
Claude had managed to get to the front of the mob. He looked fearless, pushed open the living room door and strode through.
The living room was a mess. Rubbish littered the floor, shelves had been ransacked, the carpet pulled up and dirty crockery covered the table. In the centre of the room stood the two OSS agents with Ursula. They were dressed casually, and both were holding guns to Ursula’s head. She looked worried but stood calmly.
One of them pointed his gun at Claude.
“Go back to where you came from, Hobo, and you won’t get hurt,” said one of the agents in English.
Claude put his hands in the air, “Je ne comprends pas.”
The agent continued to point his gun at Claude’s head and stepped towards him. He stopped when the tall neighbour entered the living room.
“Move,” ordered the Agent, and Claude pulled the tall man towards him.
The agent pointed his gun between Claude and the neighbour as he decided what to do next. He stepped forward again, but this time Mehmet entered followed by Vinz, Angelo, Abdel and Ahmed. There was not enough room for them all, and the agents had to step back.
The men were pushed forward by the crowd behind until the living room was full. They only had to step a few more paces, and they would be on top of the agents. Ursula could sense the uncertainty in the room and was pleased that the most confusion came from the two men with guns who were holding her. She remembered that in Ireland Arjuna had taught her the power of positive thinking. She wondered if it worked the other way and tried to send negative thoughts to the two agents.
“Stand back,” shouted one of the agents.
It was a pointless command as nobody in front of him could move back.
Ursula turned to face him and said innocently, “They don’t understand English.”
Up until this point she had been worried that Claude’s plan was not going to work but now she saw that they had strength in numbers, and she knew that the agents were trying to work out what they should do.
“Lâcher Ursula toute de suite!” said Claude.
“Oncle Claude,” smiled Ursula. “Merci d'être venu me sauver.”
“What did he say and what did you say?” asked an agent.
“He said that you should let me go, and I thanked him for rescuing me,” she faced the mob, “Merci à tous.”
“You are going to lose, my friends,” said Claude in French. “If you choose to shoot Ursula, we will all be witnesses. If you try to shoot all of us, I am sure some of us will escape. Now let Ursula go, and we’ll let you go.”
Ursula translated, but the agents chose not to move.
“Vous avez fait mon malheur, mes amis,” said Claude.
From deep in his coat, he removed an old revolver which he pointed from one agent to the other. The mob all breathed in at once.
Claude spoke again, and Ursula translated, “My uncle says that he will now shoot one of you. He thinks that while you try to shoot him back all my neighbours will jump on you both, overpower you and then drop you off the balcony.”
“Nous sommes sept étages plus. Je suis désolé de dire que je ne pense pas que vous allez survivre à la chute.”
“My uncle would like you to know that we are seven floors up and that he is worried that you will not survive the fall.” She added, “My uncle is a kind man,” but continued to direct negative thoughts at the agents.
Even with two guns pointed at her head, Ursula was smiling. She could feel that the agents did not know what to do and were no longer hopeful that the outcome would be in their best interests. On the outside, they looked assured but on the inside they were utterly lost and starting to feel defeated. Neither had an answer – if they tried to shoot their way out of this, they would end up in serious trouble or, if they tried to use Ursula as a hostage, they still had to get her out of the building. They looked at each other for an answer but neither had one.
"I've phoned the police," someone shouted from the back of the crowd.
The old lady huffed; she doubted they would arrive but did not make her thoughts known.
The agents knew that they were acting illegally and had no desire to meet the local gendarmes
. Even with assistance from the OSS, via the American government, the situation could easily escalate and expose what they had been doing.
Let me go, thought Ursula, then they’ll let you go.
She could sense that the two agents were contemplating this idea.
It was then that Claude began singing La Marseillaise, the French national anthem. He sang it loudly and clearly with a voice that belonged on the stage. Everyone turned to look at him and gradually the crowd joined in.
“You gotta be kidding me,” said one of the agents.
“More people are going to come now,” said Ursula. “Please could you empty the bullets from your guns and we’ll let you leave.”
One of the agents thought about shooting at the crowd and taking his chance. The other thought about holding Ursula with the gun in her mouth and pushing his way out of the apartment.
As they thought a pale man with acne waved his long arms past the doorway and tried to take a photograph. The agents turned to hide their faces, and as they did so, Ursula grabbed hold of the gun pointing at her head, spun on the spot and snatched at the other agent’s gun. Her arms crossed, and she swung the weapons around, so the agents were pointing at each other. Ursula stood in front of them, with her back to the crowd, and kept hold of the barrels. The agents tried to shake her off but could barely move their guns. Before they could think about kicking or hitting Ursula, she had slid her thumbs onto their trigger fingers. They could feel the pressure on their trigger fingers increase and knew that they were millimetres away from being shot.
“Let go of the guns, please,” Ursula asked nicely and increased the pressure.
The agents fought again and then reluctantly did as they were asked. Their weapons fell into Ursula’s hands. She stepped back until she was out of their reach, emptied the bullets onto the floor and handed their guns back. The mob stopped singing, and Ursula explained that the Americans were about to leave. From the back of the crowd, there was a small disturbance and people parted as the old lady from next door made her way through.
