“Stop! Please!”
Cartwright frantically tried to squirm his way out of the grip of the two infantrymen. But with each of them using their entire bodyweight on his arms it was too much.
Gohler knelt down until they were face to face.
“Warum töteten Sie einen unserer Offiziere?”
“Why did you kill one of our officers?” the Rat repeated in English.
“I-I don’t understand. I don’t know what you’re talking about. I didn’t kill anyone.”
Gohler peered hard into his eyes for a long moment. Cartwright could hear his pulse beating in his ears.
The sergeant smirked as if to say, typical.
In a sudden jerk, Gohler swiveled until his knee was down hard across Cartwright’s thigh.
A sharp, blinding pain shot through the center of Cartwright’s leg, so intense that he couldn’t muster enough focus to even scream. He shook violently in an effort to get free from the hurt. The hold of the Germans was far stronger. All of Cartwright’s conscious thought was soaked in an agony he had never known in his life. He wanted to shout, he wanted to beg, to whimper, to do whatever it would take to end the pain and blood that gushed from his knee like lava erupting from a volcano, the agony that was soaking his thigh with fire. Waves of tears poured out of his eyes and flowed freely down his cheeks until the taste of salt lined his lips. If the German captain had asked him then and there to convert to the Nazi cause, Cartwright would have done it on the spot if it meant that it would end the suffering.
An eternity passed. Gradually Cartwright became aware again of the men surrounding him. The hands that had once held him down were instead now the only thing keeping him upright. Vaguely he sensed the acrid smell of urine. The intense pain in Cartwright’s leg had dropped to a numb thumping that displaced any normal sense of feeling.
Slowly, Gohler turned around until he was facing Cartwright nose to nose. He held something small and gray between two blood-soaked fingertips and theatrically inspected it up close.
It was his kneecap.
“Sehr schön, ja?”
A wave of nausea swept over him. Oh, God, how he hurt.
“Und wir sind erst am Anfang.”
Cartwright started weeping.
“Let’s try again,” the Rat prompted suddenly. “Tell us how you really came to be here. Tell us the truth or you will have a very long, painful, unpleasant death.”
Gohler sat on Cartwright’s leg awaiting an answer. His eyes were terrifying. They shone with the simple gaze of a man going to work, only in this case the profession was to break a man’s will. And he understood how to use a knife.
Cartwright knew he would break. It might be an hour, it might be a few minutes, but it would happen, and if the Nazis hadn’t bought off on what he had previously told him, then there was no way in Hell that he could come up with a new lie now that would convince them.
It was no use. The human body was simply too frail.
“W-we w-weren’t on a b-bombing mission,” Cartwright stammered out.
“Go on.”
“W-we were flying an air drop. A c-cargo drop.”
Oh, God, he was going to tell them. Cartwright couldn’t believe the words were coming from his lips, but it was started now, and there was no stopping the momentum.
“How many others are here with you?”
“No one. W-we were shot down after making the drop. I w-was the only one who made it out of the p-plane.”
“What sort of cargo?”
Cartwright tried to stop talking.
“What kind of cargo?” The Rat screamed.
“Ordnance. Explosives.” God help him.
The Rat leaned over the sergeant and the Englishman. “And if you are here at the Conti estate, Herr Cartwright, then where are these arms?”
Cartwright paused ever so briefly as he contemplated what to say.
A scrape along his cheek made his heart jump.
Gohler pulled away the piece of bone he had extracted from Cartwright’s knee and fingered it as if it were a sacred family heirloom. When their eyes met, Cartwright knew what anything other than the truth would get him.
He knew he was going to tell the Germans everything. As much as he didn’t want to, as much as he had sworn he wouldn’t, to not do so would simply mean that the Nazis would carve it out of him piece by agonizing piece. He had to talk. God help them all.
The Briton drew in a shaky, ragged breath.
“It’s here. All of it is here.”
“Where?”
Cartwright shut his eyes in agony.
“Where?”
The Englishman slowly, so ever slowly, shifted his gaze toward the far wall of the cellar.
19
The wine racks were the first to go. Nazi goons threw them aside and trashed countless bottles of Burgundy along with them until the floor was stained a deep crimson. Next came out the entrenching tools as the Germans hacked away at the south wall. Chunk by chunk, limestone and mortar flew in every direction to the accompaniment of a sustained chorus of slashing. Minutes later the first breakthrough was made. A foot-long portion of the false wall fell in on itself and revealed open space behind it. The soldiers now started smashing the wall with boot kicks in an effort to make the hole bigger.
Cartwright watched helplessly underneath a German’s iron grip. The hole quickly grew to a man-sized opening and one of the soldiers, an older, lanky man with a gaunt face and narrow eyes, threw down his shovel to wriggle his way through. Once he got to the other side, he stuck his hand back through and someone gave him flashlight. There was an urgent conversation before a second German grabbed a pry bar and twisted through the opening. The sound of creaking metal soon snapped through the cold air of the cellar. The SS captain hovered near the hole and alternated shouting questions and commands to the other side.
While he didn’t understand German, Cartwright already knew what was happening. They were assessing the size of the weapons cache. Cylindrical airdrop canisters containing portable two-way radios. Another canister of Sten guns. Thousands of rounds of ammo. But the most damning part would be the containers of explosives, detonators, and everything an underground movement would need to disrupt an occupying force. God help them if the Nazis had also found the ammonium nitrate in the wine barn. Cartwright knew any given cell of the Resistance would only have limited information about another in order to contain the damage if discovered. But the Contis were making explosives for the region. If that supply was disrupted, any subversive operations would take a serious blow.
Even the parachutes were there, rolled up in neat bundles and piled against the wall. All of it was there for the inspection of the Nazis.
Gohler was eyeing him from just a few feet away, fingering Cartwright’s kneecap.
Cartwright tried to ignore the dull, throbbing pain. He felt sick. The thought of the knife tearing through tendons and ligaments, with the blade sliding under the kneecap and twisting until the bone popped out… Cartwright was afraid to look. All he knew was that Gohler was pure evil. So he did what little he was capable of at the moment and avoided eye contact with everyone, instead just looking off into the far corner of the room. To do any more than that would cause him to lose what little nerve he had left.
It didn’t matter anyway. The entire mission was compromised. Donner, Simon, the others—they had died for nothing, and Cartwright would undoubtedly soon join them.
The conversations by the hole grew loud and animated. Clearly the Germans were not happy with what they were finding.
“Herr Cartwright,” the Rat asked. “Who is all of this for?”
“Resistance fighters, I suppose,” Cartwright whispered. A desperate thought flashed across his mind. “The Contis are just caught up in all of this through happenstance.”
“Where was this going to be delivered then? And when?”
“I don’t know.”
“Not acceptable. Where and when?” the Rat repeated. “Who were you
r contacts?”
“God’s truth, I don’t know any more than that. I was never told how it was going to be used, or where it was supposed to go. We were just supposed to air drop the stuff and return to England.”
Gohler listened to the translation and picked up his knife from the ground. He inspected the blade as if he was sorry he had prematurely cleaned it of blood.
“Oh, please, I told you everything I know!” Cartwright pleaded. “We were just supposed to deliver the weapons. We were never supposed to even be on the ground but we got shot down! Please!”
“Herr Gohler, eine Minute bitte,” said the captain.
The sergeant’s eyes slid reluctantly up from the knife blade. But he didn’t put it down.
Slowly, the SS captain turned away from the false wall and back towards his prisoner. There were a lot of munitions in that cache. Weapons that were meant to kill Germans. Yet the captain seemed somehow detached from that reality as he stared thoughtfully into space for a moment, as if he were a professor at University pondering the theories of his field. He held his hand on his chin, his arms close to his chest, and seemed completely lost in thought.
Then he looked at Cartwright with such stunning intensity that Cartwright physically flinched. God, what had he done?
“Come inside,” the Contis had told him when he had shown up, soaking wet, on their front door.
“My family will help you,” Marc had said when they realized he was an Allied airman shot down behind enemy lines.
“Mon ami,” Robert had called him, when he told the Frenchman about the airdropped weapons that needed to be hidden.
Now he had betrayed them as well.
Carving up his knee had been nothing. Like a weak fool, the Briton had now involved Marc, Robert, Claudette, and their entire family. And the daughter. Oh God, that poor, beautiful girl. One look into the SS captain’s eyes was all it took to know with certainty that the Germans were going to kill them all.
* * *
Gabrielle slowed her pace as she returned under guard from the toilet. She had had to beg and plead for a trip out of the bedroom where she was being held. Now she was nearing the door to the other room Papa had discussed with her. Another opportunity would not be forthcoming for some time.
“Warum werden Sie langsamer?” the German soldier asked. Why are you slowing down?
“It’s cold in our room,” Gabrielle replied. “Can I go in here and get something to keep me warm?”
The soldier didn’t understand French but attempted to follow her words nonetheless. Gabrielle knew there were advantages to being pretty. She crossed her arms in front of her chest and shivered theatrically, maximizing the effect of shaking her breasts in front of the young soldier. “You know, cold. It’s cold. Can I get a blanket from the bedroom here? A blanket?”
The German seemed to piece together her pantomime and pointed inquisitively to the oaken door. “Sie möchten da hinein gehen?” Do you want to go in there?
“Oui.”
Gabrielle watched him closely. He was young, maybe her age. She did her best to look demure and non-threatening. After all, there couldn’t be anything wrong with indulging a simple request from such a pretty young woman, could there? She almost feared she had overdone it when the soldier’s expression changed and she was sure he had bought it. He gave a quick nod and motioned for Gabrielle to proceed.
She gingerly took hold of the door latch with one hand, pushed the door wide open, and without waiting another second swept into the bedroom before the German changed his mind.
The aged armoire stood alone against the wall as the only piece of furniture in the room. It was one of those family heirlooms that would never be gotten rid of, but was in poor enough condition that it would not be displayed proudly either. Gabrielle brushed her fingers across the scratches down the oak front before she pulled the doors open. It contained linens that hadn’t been used in years by anyone other than her Uncle Yves, who had not visited from Paris since the war began.
The red blanket was folded neatly underneath a stack of bed sheets.
Gabrielle used her left hand to hold the other things in place as she pulled the blanket out. It was so faded that it almost appeared pink. For a moment, Gabrielle wasn’t even sure she had the right one. A wave of panic fought to spill out from inside of her and she had to freeze to keep her hands from shaking. Please, let this be the right one.
The guard was watching her from just a few feet away.
“Oh, my,” Gabrielle said. She feigned a quick inspection. “This blanket looks so dirty. Do you mind if I hang it out the window while I get out another one?”
The German shook his head in puzzlement. “Was?”
“Schmutzig,” Gabrielle replied. That was the right word, wasn’t it?
A look of comprehension, followed by an obvious expression that he really didn’t care. That was perfect as far as Gabrielle was concerned.
Shouting was coming from another part of the house. Gabrielle decided she had better hurry.
With as much nonchalance as she could manage, she quickly walked to the window that overlooked the dark French countryside. What weak light there had been earlier in the day was gone. She unlatched the window. The shouting was getting closer. Fighting to stay calm, Gabrielle ignored the rain pooled on the windowsill and unfolded the blanket. Then she quickly laid it halfway out the window frame and closed the panes. Dark splotches of red formed where the water soaked through the fabric. They reminded Gabrielle of pooling blood.
Snapping to, Gabrielle quickly went back to the armoire and pulled out another blanket. She clutched it to her chest and waddled to the bedroom door. Mere seconds passed before a squad of soldiers appeared in the corridor, led by the sergeant with the long, silvery scar on his face.
The sergeant blinked in surprise but was clearly not pleased at finding one of their prisoners out of their room.
“Komm hieraus, Fraulein.”
He grabbed her arm and nearly pulled it out of its socket as he led her down the hall. Gabrielle defiantly refused to wince at the pain. They could take her wherever they wanted, they could keep her a prisoner forever, but after what that blond German monster had done to her, she was determined to fight her captors. That much, at least, she could control.
The detachment stopped outside her father’s room. The SS sergeant opened the door and shoved Gabrielle in with such force than she lost her footing and spilled onto the floor on top of the blanket.
“Gabrielle!”
She heard her father stand up from the bed and prayed that he stay put until the Germans left. Don’t make any sudden moves, he had told her. Don’t look threatening. That was exactly what he might risk if he went to her aid. Luckily, Papa seemed to be taking his own advice and remained still. Gabrielle heard some orders barked in German and then the squeak of the hinges as the door was pulled shut.
She started to pick herself back up. “Papa, I did what you asked. The blanket—”
“Shh,” her father said abruptly, softly. Dangerously.
Gabrielle slowly turned and saw why. A soldier was guarding them from inside the room. This one did not look friendly. In fact, he looked angry.
As if to punctuate the message, he gently stroked his machine pistol hanging from the strap around his shoulder.
She couldn’t be sure what exactly, but Gabrielle sensed from the guard’s demeanor something important had happened. Something bad. The fine hairs on the back of Gabrielle’s neck instantly stood on end.
20
Consciousness came and went for Cartwright. One minute the room was spinning and the lights seemed very bright. The next, there was only darkness and strange voices speaking an unknown language. Through it all Cartwright felt very cold. The only other sensation he could acknowledge with any consistency was the dull thrumming in his leg.
That was the way the entire night passed, in a blurry fog through which Cartwright had sporadic recollections. He remembered how the German soldiers
finished knocking down the rest of the wall. He remembered their many trips back and forth carrying the supply canisters from his plane. He recalled how the soldiers altogether ignored him, leaving him adrift in and out of awareness and shock. Time seemed both fleeting and infinite. The only reality he had was the vague feeling that he was going to die soon. And even then, he didn’t care.
Blackness.
At one point, in a fleeting moment of lucidity that brought the Englishman out of his exhausted slumber, Cartwright caught himself watching two SS officers conversing by the far wall. One was the blond German. The other had dark hair and a very deep tan from many days in the sun. The tanned one seemed unusually interested in him and kept glancing at Cartwright sitting in his puddle of various fluids. Cartwright didn’t understand why. Perhaps it wasn’t every day one saw such a disgusting pile of abused filth. But before he had a chance for any insight, Cartwright’s awareness of the material world around him would slip away.
Floating.
Another start at the realization he was in the real world. Now there was only a guard with a machine pistol standing in the doorway. He was clearly bored, and did not take the same interest in the prisoner as had the two officers. It was still cold. Cartwright took note of the texture of the limestone brick in the cellar.
Aching.
A person was standing over him. “Scheisse,” a voice whispered.
Cartwright tried to focus. Another set of eyes was right in front of him and staring back.
The Englishman jumped—as much as his body would allow him. The German officer with the suntan was back, kneeling in front of him with a disgusted grimace on his face. Cartwright watched as the German’s eyes swept over his uniform, down past his injured knee, across the piss and vomit on the floor, and back to his face. Their eyes met again, and all Cartwright could do was stare into the intensity that was focused back on him.
The repugnance was still there, no doubt from the smell. Cartwright knew he reeked. He just no longer had energy to care. But something else shone in the man’s eyes, softer and more human than the Englishman would have expected. Not a look of remorse. Not malice, despite their positions on different sides of the war. Perhaps… pity? Acknowledgment of these piss poor circumstances into which Cartwright had fallen?
The Hazards of War Page 14
