The Maids of Chateau Vernet

by Steven Landry

  “The mortality rate is a hell of a lot higher in one of the concentration camps,” Hiram said.

  Oster nodded. “I can’t make any arrangements without a conversation with my contacts. From what I’ve seen here, especially the exquisite weapons your soldiers are carrying, we may have another option.”

  A short time later, Hiram, Locard, and Oster sat around the table in the kitchen. Agnes stood watch in the doorway, listening for any indication of trouble outside the room. They asked the Benoit’s to stay in their bedroom upstairs. Rosette played with her son in the front yard. Hiram’s remaining soldiers kept watch on the house, both inside and out. A few had taken up positions just beyond the tree line at the edge of the farmer’s property.

  “We can end this war before the train reaches its destination,” the German said.

  “How?” Hiram asked.

  “We eliminate Hitler and his command staff, then seize power in Berlin and other major centers using the Ersatzheer. You might know it as the Replacement Army. Highly placed comrades are in position throughout the German Army, ready to command the Ersatzheer. Many German officers believe America’s entry into the war makes our eventual defeat inevitable. The recent destruction of Saarbrücken should bring more of them over to that belief.”

  Hiram recalled the general outlines of Operation Valkyrie and it hadn’t turned out well. Hitler had been lucky to survive Von Stauffenberg’s bomb at the Wolf’s Lair. In retaliation, all the conspirators had been snuffed out. But I have much bigger bombs.

  “Hitler is closely guarded, which has been a problem all along,” Oster continued. “I’d guess the destruction of Saarbrücken will only increase the number of guards on watch.”

  “Can you get your hands on his schedule?”

  “I have contacts on Field Marshal von Rundstedt’s staff that can,” Oster said.

  “What do we need to do?”

  “Get me to OB West headquarters outside Paris.”

  39

  0700 hours, Saturday, August 15, 1942, Vittel, Vosges Department, Occupied France

  Louis Petain rarely used his granduncle’s patronage to secure cooperation from such a valuable asset as the Gendarmerie, the French military police. But, the current fiasco’s high stakes deemed the use of his family’s influence to secure passage for himself and thirty-nine of his best men aboard a French Air Force Farman F.224 transport. The plane landed at an airfield south of Nancy, where Petain and his men boarded a train to Pont-Saint-Vincent, the northern end of the rail line serving Camp Vittel, at least since the allied bombers had destroyed the bridge across the Moselle River north of the town. The same train his men rode in now would be used to pick up the prisoners at the camp.

  When they arrived at Frontstalag 194, his men took their places among the prisoners, along with the families of the troublesome escaped maids, and began to board the train. Over two hundred Jewish girls had been added to the roster of those headed east. At the front of the train, a French National Railway locomotive, operated by the engineer and his young assistant, pulled a coal tender and a passenger coach with ten officers from the camp’s guard force. Two French railway men occupied the caboose. They monitored the train’s status from the rear and were prepared to assist if the train needed to be backed down the rail line.

  As soon as the single door to the boxcar was closed, Petain directed his men to chain ten of the adult male prisoners in place across the door opening, forming a human barrier for his men to hide behind when the door was opened. Ten Jewish adults and teenagers, plus thirty younger children, mostly girls, huddled at either end of the boxcar, as far from the policemen as possible. The nine trailing cattle cars held a similar complement of passengers.

  * * *

  0815 hours, Saturday, August 15, 1942, Suriauville, Vosges Department, Occupied France

  The train braked hard, steel wheels squealing on the iron rails. Captain Petain reached out to steady himself. Without a good handhold, he lost his footing and went down to his knees. He wasn’t the only one to fall. So soon? We can’t be more than ten or fifteen kilometers from the station. How did they get so far north so quickly?

  He picked himself up off the floor, shouting, “Get ready,” to his men.

  His men regained their footing and took up positions behind the ten adult prisoners blocking the sliding door opening on the left side of the cattle car. The train jerked twice more and rolled to a stop. A few pops of gunfire came from near the engine. “Fire as soon as you have a target,” Petain said, speaking to both the men in the car and into the radio mouthpiece wired to the young operator’s backpack. The radio operator darted to the rear corner of the car as the door slid open.

  Bright morning sunshine filled the car. Petain blinked a few times until he made out the form of a soldier in a camouflage uniform standing outside the door. A female soldier. One of the escaped prisoners from Rivesaltes? She stared up at the chained prisoners, bewilderment plastered on her face. One of his men shot her in the face.

  Gunfire erupted up and down the line as the men in the trailing cattle cars slid open their doors and joined the fight. The attackers tried not to hit the prisoners, returning sporadic fire from weapons that made no sound. From inside the box car, Petain made out at least four soldiers gunned down in the ditch between the tracks and the wood line. He jumped backward when a bullet cracked into the side of the car sending a quick spray of splinters centimeters from his right ear.

  Gunfire tapered, then ceased. Unwilling to risk hitting prisoners, the women backed out of view, leaving Petain’s men without suitable targets.

  “Surrender,” Petain shouted from behind his human shield. “You have one minute.” He grabbed a young girl with dark, matted curls and pushed her between two of the adults, their chains rubbing as they adjusted. She clung to the man on the left. Petain positioned himself behind the other man and pressed his pistol to the back of the girl’s head. “Or we’ll kill your children.” Turning his head and speaking in a lower voice, he said to those in the car, “and if any of you try to interfere, I’ll kill them all anyway.”

  A minute later he repeated the threat, irritated the soldier and his dogs didn’t bite. He waited another minute, then pulled the trigger. A spatter of blood fell upon his bare hand. The high-pitched screams of the children behind him made more noise than the fusillade of bullets that poured through the cattle car door. He backed away from the opening. Two Jews sagged in their chains, but the shield did not fall. Petain replaced the dead little girl with another one and waited. This time a scream came from outside the boxcar, beyond the tree line.

  “D'accord! Nous nous rendons!” All right! We surrender! An unarmed man walked out of the woods, hands held high. “Nous nous rendons.” He stopped about ten meters from the tracks. Six female soldiers followed him out of the woods, one wounded and supported by two others.

  “I count seven out there. Four more over here. Where are the rest of my prisoners?” Petain shouted.

  “Not here,” the man replied. A flicker of movement in the woods caught Petain’s eye.

  “Tell your accomplice skulking in the shadows that I’m a hell of shot.”

  “He’s not one of ours,” the man said.

  Petain fired off three quick rounds in that direction, though he doubted he hit the target. He waited a few seconds, not taking his eyes off the woods. Nothing moved except the mysterious man, six Jewish escapees, and the trembling little girl still clutched in his hand.

  He pulled the girl back into the car and pushed her over to the others. “Seize them,” he said. “Search the area for any others. Send a few out that way.” His men wriggled though the human chain and jumped down from the boxcars.

  A group of his men met the prisoners, searching each one for weapons. The others fanned out. Some headed toward the brush at the edge of the forest. A few walked the length of the train. Petain waited in the cattle car.

  “All clear, sir,” his second in command, Sergeant Dubois, shouted. “Thr
ee burned up sidecar motorcycles over there in the brush, but no one else.”

  More soldiers hid out there, he was sure. For now, he had what he wanted. Best to move on. “What about the rest of the train?” Petain slipped between the chained prisoners and jumped to the ground. He headed toward the locomotive. Black smoke billowed from something burning on the tracks in front of the train.

  Dubois chose to explore the passenger car. Before Petain caught up, his second jumped out of the car. “Riddled with bullets, sir. All dead inside.”

  Petain moved forward and found the engineer slouched in the space between the locomotive and the coal tender, the front of his uniform dark and wet. His assistant’s arm hung limp from the window. Two unfortunate losses. “Find me someone who can operate this train,” Petain told Dubois.

  Dubois nodded and trotted off toward the men grouped near the second boxcar.

  Petain walked farther up the tracks. A truck burned astride them. Lazy, black smoke drifted up from the blackened engine. In between the truck and train, a missing section of rails and ties left recesses in the ballast where the tracks began to curve.

  He was disappointed with the troublesome soldier. Had he taken the truck out of his equation, the train would have derailed.

  He considered sending his men to search for the rails. Even if they found them, no one on his team had been trained to place them. They would all have to go northeast, back the way they had come, to wait for the completion of the repair.

  “Move all the surviving prisoners to the second cattle car. Throw anything dead or close to it in the first cattle car, along with the motorcycles. Strip the women of their equipment and put them in the cattle car with the other prisoners where they belong,” Petain said.

  Dubois nodded and directed his men.

  “What about this one?” Barre asked with his sidearm pointed at the kneeling soldier’s head.

  Petain approached the man. “Quite a headache you and your dogs have caused.”

  The man offered no response, his eyes sweeping the scene.

  He doesn’t look at his women, does not pay any mind to the squeals of the children as they are pushed along toward their new cage. For a moment, Petain thought he looked like a man playing chess. Evaluating, calculating, preparing for the move to make next. Perhaps preparing for the tenth one down the line.

  “He’ll be riding in the passenger coach with me.” Petain said. No need to risk any unforeseen situations that might arise if left in anyone else’s care. “The weapons too. And bring me anything interesting you find on the women.”

  Within a few minutes, the men had relocated all the prisoners, both dead and alive. The troublesome man, now bound inside the passenger car, waited for interrogation. Petain climbed into the car, where Dubois and one of his men sat inside, weapons trained on the prisoner seated toward the middle of the car. A mix of blood and brain matter speckled the wall behind their captive. Petain took a seat across from him.

  “Why don’t you tell me what you’ve done with the escaped prisoners?”

  The man said nothing, but at least now he met Petain’s eyes.

  “Fine. How about your name?”

  Still the man kept quiet.

  Before he could ask again, the door at the back of the car opened. “Sorry to interrupt sir. Radio call,” the radio operator said. Blood spatter covered the young man’s face, dotted his civilian clothing. “It’s headquarters relaying a call from Lieutenant Lebeau.”

  Petain took the microphone and stepped to the rear of the car still focused on the soldier. “Who is this?” he asked, signaling Dubois to continue the interrogation.

  Dubois’ fist connected with the soldier’s stomach. Petain smiled.

  “Miss Brodeur, sir. There’s no one else here. Lieutenant Lebeau said he needs to speak with you.”

  “Out with it,” Petain said, his patience faltering. He was anxious to break this prisoner who had caused so much turbulence in his department. He needed it.

  “He says Inspector Locard, the German officer, and another man got into Locard’s car and left Saint Chamond heading north about an hour ago,” Rubi Brodeur said, her voice tinny. “They pulled off the road outside Roanne. They seem to be arguing. Says this is the first chance he’s had to call in.”

  “A German officer?” Petain said, surprised.

  “Yes, sir. Lebeau said it’s the same unknown German that was at the house with Locard this morning. Colonel’s insignia on the uniform.”

  What the hell is that all about? Is Locard working for the Germans? “Let him know we’re serious,” Petain spat across the passenger car.

  “Sorry, sir. I missed that,” Rubi said.

  Dubois’s hit the soldier several times across the face. One serious shot to the jaw sent his body backwards and he fell onto the bloody seat.

  “Nothing. Tell the Lieutenant to keep following them. I want an update within the hour if he can manage it. He must keep me informed.” Petain handed the microphone back to the radio operator who headed back the way he had come.

  Petain sat down and picked up the mysterious soldier’s exotic weapon. “Let’s have a look at this rifle of yours. I’m sure the Grand Marshall would appreciate a weapon like this for his collection.”

  The soldier shifted on the seat. Still, he said nothing.

  40

  0900 hours, Saturday, August 15, 1942, Suriauville, Vosges Department, Vichy France

  Charlotte held Maxime close to her in the side car of the railbike. The death of a child always hit the mother hard. But even Charlotte, who had lost an infant a couple of years before the roundup began, could not imagine the pain of seeing your child die arms-length from a madman with a pistol.

  “Solange,” Maxime said. She repeated the name, her words slurred by grief. Mucus dribbled from her nose and lips as she sobbed. Poor, innocent Solange.

  Maxime’s tears soaked through Charlotte’s uniform. Her body heaved with each intake of breath. The policeman would pay for his cruelty.

  Barbara drove southeast, deeper into the Vosges Mountains. The M22 assault rifles, portal containing backpacks, and C2ID2’s of those who had surrendered filled the extra space in the side car. A rifle barrel dug into Charlotte’s side each time the bike hit a rough patch of road. She refused to readjust to avoid disturbing Maxime’s mourning.

  When the trio fled, they left behind the bodies of Justine, Ester, Stephanie, and Anna, along with all of their gear. The others taken prisoner aboard the train compounded the loss. But the image of little Solange clinging to the chained man beside her, dark eyes searching for salvation, dug claws into her mind. Charlotte’s vision clouded with quiet tears. Poor, innocent, Solange. She wiped away the moisture, hoping Maxime would not notice.

  Maxime’s sobs faded after an hour, leaving a shell of the former woman behind. Her eyes targeted a point somewhere beyond what Charlotte could see. Trees and service poles passed between her and the target, yet her eyes remained fixed.

  Another hour passed before Charlotte activated her C2ID2 to message the other teams. Every second that passed seemed longer than the last. She prepared to send through a second message. “Give them time,” Barbara said as she reached over and put a hand on Charlotte’s shoulder.

  Charlotte nodded. The world moved too slow around her. She started counting to herself. To one hundred then I’ll try again.

  At fifty-seven, Hiram sent a return message: “Pick up Deborah and Danette, then go to Mamirolle. Await further instructions.”

  “What? That’s it.” Charlotte needed more information. Mamirolle was the rendezvous point in the Jura Mountains, where they’d hoped to hide out until the Allies invaded, or follow Oster’s route into Switzerland. She looked at Barbara. “What do we do now?”

  “Can you track the train?” Barbara said. “Find out where it’s headed?”

  “I expect it’ll go back to the camp,” Charlotte said.

  “Nothing to go back to,” Barbara said. “Assuming the incendiary
rockets did their job.” Minutes after the train left Camp Vittel, Stephanie and Anna launched a fusillade of rocket-propelled firebombs into the two hotels that held all the Jews in the camp, before racing to catch-up with the rest of the teams attacking the train. Neither had survived that attack.

  “They’ll have to figure out how to jam their captives back into the remaining hotels,” said Charlotte.

  “We have to do something.” Barbara said. “We can’t just go to Mamirolle!”

  “I don’t know. Colonel Oster’s plan might work before the train heads north again.”

  “And if it doesn’t? You saw what they did to Maxime’s little girl.”

  Charlotte stared at the red dot traveling along the tracks on the display, the path edged by forest. The view offered her no ideas. It’s just a dot. “I don’t know what to do.” The train slowed as it passed through Vittel, then kept going north. “They didn’t stop. I bet they go all the way back to the railyard in Pont-Saint-Vincent.”

  Charlotte zoomed the view out to see the train’s path as it moved north toward Pont-Saint-Vincent.

  “What’s that?” Barbara asked, pointing to a cluster of large buildings north of Xeuilley.

  Charlotte tried to remember. She hadn’t ever been to Xeuilley. “Looks like an industrial complex of some sort.” She maneuvered the drone to get a better look at the facility. Large cylindrical towers sat on either side of the railroad tracks, connected by enclosed bridges that she assumed contained conveyor belts. “Cement factory, maybe?”

  “We could drop those on the tracks,” Barbara said. “The allies destroyed the bridge in Pont-Saint-Vincent, blocking the northern route. If we block the tracks there, we trap the train between Pont-Saint-Vincent and Xeuilley.”

  Charlotte looked at Maxime, her expression vacant. She thought about Trembley and the other prisoners on the train. “You’re right Barbara. We have to do something.”