The Maids of Chateau Vernet

by Steven Landry

  Hiram liked the initiative and resourcefulness of the women in his absence. Yahweh knows they’re going to need it, since I have to split them up again.

  “I wish we had a half-dozen more of them,” Deborah said, bringing him back to the present.

  “That’s one wish I can grant. We need to disassemble the whole thing, lower it into my pod.” His stomach turned at he said the words. Even now, after days without accessing either pod, his stomach continued to remind him of his trip into Jacob’s pod. “I should be able to enter the pod multiple times until we have all the parts we need for seven bikes.”

  “If you say so.” Deborah relayed his direction to Justine and Emma who jumped in to help. Within twenty minutes they had disassembled the motorbike into small enough pieces. They lowered the disassembled motorbike through a portal. An hour later, the components for seven modified bikes lay out before them.

  “How long to put them all back together?” Hiram said.

  “An hour, maybe two per device,” Emma said, Deborah translating. “It’s harder than taking them apart.”

  “She thinks they can get it done in about ten hours,” Deborah said.

  “I’ll help,” Hiram said as he stooped down beside one of the sets of parts.

  Emma said a few words to Deborah.

  Deborah laughed. “She says this is woman’s work. You have an attack to plan.”

  Hiram looked around at the six women now surrounding the copied bike and robot parts. He dared not doubt their ability to complete this task after all they’d been through. Besides, he needed to get rid of his headache. “So be it. We leave tonight,” he said.

  17

  0915 hours, Tuesday, August 4, 1942, south of Périllos Pyrénées-Orientales Department, Vichy France

  “Rosette’s gone,” Deborah said. Hiram looked up from the map he studied on the C2ID2.

  “You’re sure?” he asked.

  “She didn’t show up for breakfast. When Simone went to look for her she found her C2ID2 attached to a log, so we can’t track her electronically. She probably left right after her watch at three o’clock this morning. Looks like she took an M22 and a pair of night vision goggles. Should we send a drone looking for her?”

  “We need to get the M22 and NVGs back before they end up in French hands. Put Agnes on it. She’s the best drone operator we’ve got. Any ideas where she’s headed?”

  Deborah was already walking away. She called back, “Towards Vichy. Back to her family.”

  Hiram tried to turn his attention back to his C2ID2. Barbara and another of the women – Isadore by the sound of it – argued behind him. He guessed Isadore blamed Barbara for Rosette’s departure. Barbara’s “kill them all” mentality had set most of them on edge last night. Most of these women once lived among the French Gentiles. They shared afternoon tea with the neighbors, watched as their children played together in the yard. Even after all the French had done to them, they did not wish death on their estranged friends.

  He set down the C2ID2 and headed toward the commotion. Deborah, on her way back with news, said a few loud words to the group, then kept walking. They quieted and headed toward Agnes, all eager to find their missing comrade.

  “Agnes launched a drone.” Hiram returned to his seat and picked up the C2ID2 auxiliary display. Deborah sat down beside him, close enough that her shoulder pressed against him, ensuring a good view of the monitor. “What are you up to anyway?”

  “Trying to figure out the safest route to Saarbrücken, or as close as we can get,” he said. “I thought the road maps were bad. Look at these rail maps.” The drawing showed huge gaps in the tracks. The tracks either remained unfinished or the map reflected an incomplete picture.

  Deborah traced the railway with her finger from the flagged location of their camp all the way to Saarbrücken. “Why Saarbrücken?”

  “From what I remember of my father’s research, all the Holocaust trains from Drancy pass over the Saar River and through the major rail junction in Saarbrücken on their way to Auschwitz. It’s also a major transit point for German supplies.”

  Deborah looked at him, hopeful. “You think detonating one of your nuclear bombs in the area will stop the trains leaving Drancy?”

  “I hope so. The loss of the Saarbrücken railhead puts more pressure on the other major crossings into France. With any luck, the prisoners at Drancy will be a low enough priority that they’ll get pushed way down the cargo lists.”

  “Saarbrücken is a long way from here.”

  “I think we can handle it, thanks to Emma and Justine’s ingenuity.”

  “And when you say ‘we’” Deborah looked at him sideways as if expecting him to finish.

  “Me, you, Danette, and Vera.”

  “Vera?”

  “Have you seen her operate a drone?” Hiram said. “Almost as good as Agnes, whom I have other plans for.”

  “I should have expected that. What about the others?”

  “To stop the war, multiple targets need to be eliminated near Hitler’s Atlantic Wall. The quickest way to carry out those attacks is to split up into smaller groups. Seven teams should be sufficient. The bikes have two seats. And, we can squeeze two into the sidecar. Up to four in each team. Call them Alpha, Bravo, Charlie, Delta, Echo, Foxtrot, Golf, and Hotel.”

  “I’ll assume we belong to team Alpha.”

  “I need you with me to translate radio calls since not all the teams have English or Hebrew speakers, Vera can focus on interpreting the drone data and–”

  “And you don’t want to leave Danette behind,” she finished for him.

  Hiram said, “You got it.”

  “Where are we sending the others?”

  “Towards the coast. Somewhere along the Loire River near Tours should do until we hear Sarah and Maria have made it to England. We need to keep them on this side of the demarcation line from occupied France. Everything depends on Sarah talking to General Eisenhower.”

  * * *

  “Agnes found Rosette, about 20 kilometers west of here, near Padern,” Deborah said, Agnes and Nora standing by her side. “I’m not sure why she’s going west. Maybe because we expected her to head north.”

  “So much for scooping her up on the way. We can’t waste the night chasing her down. Agnes – keep her in view and switch out with Nora if you need a break.” Hiram waited for Deborah to translate.

  Agnes nodded in acceptance of the task. Nora stood by her side ready to assist.

  “We leave at full dark. We don’t have a lot of time to spare.”

  * * *

  2015 hours, Tuesday, August 4, 1942, southeast of Orange, Vaucluse Department, Vichy France

  The train rolled down the tracks thirty meters ahead. Hiram watched through his NVGs, alert for any signs of slowing. They made good time, almost eighty kilometers per hour, but it was still a long way to Saarbrücken. He enjoyed the feel of Deborah’s arms wrapped around him from behind, her helmet resting against his back. His goggles flared when he looked to his right. Vera, seated in front of Danette in the sidecar, focused on the C2ID2 screen. The sensitive goggles reacted to the light from the display. He reminded himself the light was barely visible beyond the sidecar to anyone not wearing NVGs. Still, it made him nervous.

  The train ahead clack-clacked as it rattled over the rail junctions, audible over the railbike’s quiet electric engine. The BMW’s previous internal combustion engine had been powerful, but too noisy to carry Alpha team this close to a train. Cannibalizing the combat robot had been a stroke of genius.

  A sudden, piercing whistle cut through the night, the sound familiar and unforgettable. He cut the engine’s power and slammed on the bike’s brakes, the rubber tires squealing along the rails as the bike came to a halt.

  Danette and Vera scrambled out of the sidecar and disappeared over the opposite side of the tracks as Hiram and Deborah dove off the railbike. Hiram and Deborah fell to the ground and rolled down the slight embankment, stopping in a muddy puddle as th
e first bomb detonated further up the line. Ten seconds later the ground shook as a second bomb hit much closer.

  “Incline Thine ear, O HaShem, and answer me; for I am poor and needy.” Hiram had not heard Deborah pray before. It took him a verse to remember the psalm, but he soon joined in.

  “Be gracious unto me, O Lord; for unto Thee do I cry all the day.” Deborah opened her eyes and tried to smile, the effort thwarted by her fear. She squeezed them shut again and resumed praying as a plane roared overhead spitting cannon fire at the train. After another verse, a second plane crossed the sky, firing again at the train. Hiram guessed the planes were British or American fighter-bombers, armed with bombs and 20 mm canons.

  One of the shots hit something volatile. The train erupted in a cascade of explosions. I guess they bombed a train full of bombs, Hiram thought as the shock waves rolled over them. Isolated explosions continued for the next few minutes, then silence.

  He checked himself – no damage. Beside him, Deborah smiled with relief. He reached out and touched her. She shook her head and pointed back toward the tracks, mouthing Danette’s name. Hiram raised his head to shout across to the other side of the embankment. “Danette, are you okay,” but he couldn’t hear his own voice. “Vera!” That’s when he noticed the ringing in his ears. He turned his head to look down at Deborah and saw her mouth moving again. He heard nothing.

  “Can you hear me?” he said. Deborah looked at him for a moment, then shook her head. Hiram got up on his knees and took a quick look around. The NVGs rested on the ground an arm’s length away. Once he had them settled in place, he took another look around before scrambling over the tracks to find Danette and Vera.

  He found Vera lying on her stomach at the bottom of the embankment, eyes fixed and unmoving, her head contorted at an impossible angle, her neck torn open. A twisted shard of metal stuck out of the wound. He looked around wildly for Danette.

  To his surprise she lay a few feet away on the ground in a perfect prone firing position, sighting her M22 up the tracks. He glanced in that direction but saw no threats. He tapped her on the shoulder to get her attention. He pointed to his ear and shook his head. She nodded in agreement. They were all deaf.

  Danette resumed her firing position. Deborah who had observed Danette’s calm professionalism, took up a similar position, looking in the opposite direction. Hiram went to examine the railbike, which had slipped off the tracks. The bottom of the front wheel bent inward. Otherwise the bike seemed fully functional. He retracted the guide wheels that had kept the railbike on the track, then swapped the damaged wheel with the spare his mechanics had insisted each group take with them.

  Twenty minutes later he signaled Danette and Deborah to climb aboard. He loaded Vera’s body into the sidecar with Danette. Danette held the dead woman like a child, supporting her head as her neck no longer would. Tears streamed down Danette’s cheeks as she turned to face him.

  “We need to take her where she won’t be found,” he said. He spoke loud, unable to hear his own words above the ringing in his ears.

  Deborah and Danette seemed to understand him, although it was likely their hearing hadn’t returned either. Hiram climbed on to the bike.

  Farther down the tracks, local firemen approached the burning train, black silhouettes against the flames. They’d have to find a way around the wrecked train and the response forces streaming towards it. More delays. More time wasted. Time the families in Drancy could not afford.

  18

  1300 hours, Tuesday, August 4, 1942, Marbella, Costa del Sol, Francoist Spain

  Sarah was quite sure she would never eat another orange as long as she lived. For three days she’d hidden along with Maria in the back of an ancient flatbed truck, occupying a small space between dozens of crates packed with fragrant oranges.

  Since Sunday night, they’d shared the cramped space with Flight Lieutenant Anthony “Tony” Farley of the Royal Air Force’s 138th Squadron. Tony had bailed out of his Westland Lysander over southeastern France a week earlier, his aircraft falling victim to a German fighter plane. He’d been lucky to survive the night jump into a forest, but his lone passenger, a British SAS officer, had perished when he snapped his neck on an unseen branch.

  Hiram had instructed Sarah and Maria not to reveal their true mission to anyone until they spoke to an American officer, either on the Rock or in Britain. Tony’s questions went unanswered, so he had resorted to flirting. Sarah wasn’t in the mood, but she knew Tony could help them get ashore at Gibraltar. She tried to be polite. Tony judged her lack of interest, and focused his attention on Maria, the two of them verbally fencing as the truck rolled down the road.

  The truck came to a halt and the stacks of orange crates began to disappear, allowing them to crawl out into the light, shading their eyes at the sudden brilliance of the Costa del Sol. The truck had stopped at a small vineyard located below a high ridge. Sarah saw the Mediterranean Sea a few kilometers to the south, beyond a fishing village on the coast below them.

  Maria asked the driver, Ricardo, the name of the town. He was a short, swarthy man with considerable body odor and worse breath. Still, it was preferable to oranges.

  “Marbella, mi señora.” Ricardo pointed down toward the town and said a few more words to Maria.

  “He says we’ll be boarding one of the boats down there for the trip to the Rock. About 70 kilometers by sea. But first,” Maria smiled “we eat!”

  Sarah hoisted her backpack onto her shoulder and thanked him, Maria translating, then asked for directions to the toilet. Sarah left Maria and Ricardo and headed for the privy. As she made her way around the ramshackle house, she wondered why Ricardo had once referred to Tony as a spy during their trip south.

  She nearly collided with Tony as she turned a corner. “Pardon me, madam,” he said in his clipped English accent. He stepped aside, allowing her to pass.

  “Entirely my fault.” She smiled and continued on her way. Tony was one of those Brits you could pick out of a crowd instantly. Fair-skinned, square-shouldered, and possessing a ramrod-straight posture, he radiated English aristocracy, even dressed as he was in peasant rags and leather sandals. That man would make an awful spy. He spoke terrible Spanish and poor French. Maria had been translating for him since they met.

  Sarah breathed in the open air, glad to be free of the stuffy truck and the acidity of the orange-tainted air she’d endured along the way. The scent of oranges lingered and she wondered how long it intended to stick with her.

  The familiar pop of a gunshot sent her ducking behind the outhouse that had been her destination. After a second shot, she took off running in the other direction. She plunged into a thick copse of juniper bushes at the edge of the woods. Moments later, two Spanish policemen rounded the corner of the building, guns drawn. They advanced on the outhouse, then yelled for her to come out. When she didn’t respond, they yanked the door open.

  Moving slow and quiet, Sarah reached into her pack and withdrew the handgun Hiram had provided her for self-defense. She kept an eye on the policemen, who searched a jumble of discarded farm equipment near the privy. With the silencer screwed on tight and a full ten round magazine she waited.

  The policemen moved their search into the house while Sarah crawled deeper into the woods. She rose to a crouch, circled around to the front of the dwelling, and took up a position under a broken-down wagon at the edge of the woods. Tony, Ricardo and another man, along with a middle-aged woman, sat on the ground in front of the house with their hands on their heads. Three policemen stood guard over them, one with sergeant’s stripes on his sleeve. Maria lay sprawled on the ground nearby. She wasn’t moving.

  Sarah put her head down and tried to calm herself. She had left Maria alone for no more than ten minutes and now she lay dead at the feet of those bastards. Strong, brave Maria. If she hadn’t taken the time to relieve herself, she may have been right there on the ground beside her, just as silent and still. You’ve still got a job to do. Sarah took in one
deep breath, letting out all the fear and sadness along with it. These bastards deserve to die! She returned her focus to the scene, drawing on the long hours of training Hiram had put them through.

  The sergeant was armed with a pistol, holstered at his hip. The other two men had rifles. She longed for an M22 assault rifle, but the handgun would have to do.

  The two men searching the house emerged onto the front porch and all three of the policemen in the yard turned in that direction. Sarah fired.

  From a distance of almost twenty meters, she aimed for center of mass, hitting the policemen nearest Tony in the back. He screamed as he crumpled to the ground. Sarah shifted her aim to the second rifleman and fired again. The heavy slug caught him in the shoulder, spinning him around as he fell. His spin revealed more information on her hiding place than the nearly silent shots she’d fired. The policemen on the porch fired in her general direction and she scrambled farther under the wagon. She lifted her head in time to see Ricardo lunge at the sergeant, knocking him to the ground. Both men wrestled for control of his pistol. Without a clear shot, she shifted her fire to the men on the porch.

  Tony grabbed the nearest fallen policeman’s rifle and aimed toward the two surviving officers, adding his fire to Sarah’s. One man was hit and the other dove for cover. Sarah returned her attention to the struggle between Ricardo and the police sergeant. Ricardo had lost, he lay dying in the dirt. The sergeant pointed his pistol at Tony. Tony faced the porch, rifle still pointing toward the falling policeman on the porch. Sarah and the sergeant fired at almost the same instant.

  19

  1410 hours, Tuesday, August 4, 1942, southwest of Monda, Costa del Sol, Francoist Spain

  Pasqual drove too fast for the dirt track, but not fast enough for Sarah’s liking. Tony groaned as the truck hit another bump in the mountain road. Every little movement aggravated the bullet buried deep in Tony’s shoulder, and while the magical foam in her medical kit had stopped the bleeding, he needed expert medical care, and needed it soon. She’d given him as much pain killer as she dared, fearful of a fatal overdose. The stout vineyard owner, Pasqual, had directed them to a trustworthy doctor in the town of Monda. But Monda waited fifteen kilometers in the wrong direction, away from the sea and the boat that would carry them to Gibraltar, along a route riddled with police patrols and roadblocks. Sarah regretted not taking the time to bury Maria, but Tony still had a chance and she feared he might die of shock or infection without help.