Fulcrum of Malice

by Patrick W O'Bryon

  In one motion, René lunged into the room, dropping to the floor, his pistol raised. Malraux dived to his left, his weapon braced in both hands. The room was empty. Playing cards spread across the table, half-empty glasses of beer, a lone cigarette smoldering in the overflowing ashtray. The Schmeissers gone. No back door to the guard room. They positioned themselves to either side of the storage closet and Malraux kicked open the door. Nothing.

  The exchange of gunfire had already turned sporadic, a dull popping. The partisans were going down, and he and Malraux were trapped between the enemy about to burst through that front door and others entering from the pens. They could join their comrades outside in a last-ditch stand, but what chance had P-38s against a Schmeisser fusillade? His mind raced. Those coming down the corridor might be their delayed comrades, but more likely armed Boches stalking them.

  Was their charade already blown?

  Malraux’s thoughts mirrored his own. “Let’s see if these uniforms still work their magic.”

  “Agreed.” They lowered their weapons and René approached the doorway. Faint voices and hesitant footsteps came their way, perhaps three men, perhaps more. He put authority in his voice: “Hallo! Wer ist da? Identify yourselves now!”

  A young voice, gruff yet nervous: “Matrosen.” Sailors.

  René exhaled and felt secure enough to push his luck. “Show your faces, on the double!”

  The men appeared in the light, unarmed. “Seaman First Class Rögerfeld, sir.” His eyes darted nervously, first to René’s insignia of high rank, then toward the entrance. The occasional gunshot still reverberated beyond the barrier, but it was quieter now, mostly shouting and muted orders. Only moments remained if this was to work.

  The lead seaman appeared flushed, scared. “If I may ask, sir, what’s going on out there?”

  René took control, demanding answers, not giving them: “You come from the bunkers—are there more of you at the pens?”

  “No, Herr Kapitän, just us, as far as we know. You see, sir, we fell into some decent schnapps and dozed off inside our boat.” René smelled the liquor, noted the unsteady stance of the three. “And then we missed the transport back to La Baule. We thought to hitch a ride and then heard that racket out there,” he gestured to the door, “and, well…” His voice trailed off.

  Malraux stepped forward and eyed with disgust the condition of the sailors’ uniforms. “There are saboteurs out there, and your dereliction of duty shall not go unnoticed.” The men turned sheepish. “You three will remain in that guard room till we’ve wrapped things up. Expect more than just a reprimand once this is over. Now get out of our sight! You drunks sicken me!” The sailors entered the guard room on unstable feet.

  René and Malraux strode up the corridor, putting distance between themselves and the trouble. It was clear many of their comrades would be dead or captured, their own charade unmasked at any moment. Once under the cavernous ceiling of the first bunker, they ran toward the portal, waiting for gunfire at their backs, hearing only their own footfalls slapping the concrete.

  Slick iron rungs descended into the basin. They clambered down, submerging to their necks in the frigid water. Taking a deep breath, they dove beneath the heavy metal doors, surfaced out in the basin, then backstroked north. The waterlogged uniforms weighed heavily. They kicked off their footwear and stayed close to the concrete wall. No skiff waited to pick them up, and the construction zone had fallen deathly silent. Alarms were sounding to the south of the complex and searchlights lit that horizon. At the north end all remained still as death.

  At the swing bridge opening to the northern Penhoët Basin they climbed a metal ladder and emerged on the edge of the rail yards. Across the track loomed warehouses, atop the largest a massive flak tower, its three anti-aircraft guns silhouetted against the moonlit sky. A string of flatbed railcars hid them from sight.

  Malraux, winded from the exertion in the cold water, slapped his shoulders to restore circulation. “What do you think?”

  “Find our men and free any survivors.”

  Malraux paced, his hands shoved deep in the soggy trouser pockets. “We’re outmanned, outgunned and clearly outwitted, my friend.”

  “But we owe the others a try!”

  “Listen, Rénard, every man knew the risks. Sadly, things just didn’t go our way.”

  “But think of Maurice—Laura’s expecting!”

  The two men hunkered down beside a pile of crates, seeking shelter from fog coming in off the estuary on a rising breeze. “A risk he was willing to take.” Malraux hesitated, placing his hand on René’s shoulder. “Let’s face it—Maurice will have saved himself and anyone else he could.” He removed his uniform jacket and twisted water from the sleeves. His teeth chattered as he put it back on. “But only those who get away will ever fight the bastards again. So you get the hell out of here, and now!” He blew into his cupped hands, trying to warm them. “And as far from Saint-Nazaire as possible. Steiner knows your face, everyone knows that limp of yours, and there’ll be no hiding now that word is out.”

  “And you’re any different? They know that mug of yours, too.”

  “Yes, but I can disappear. I’ve contacts across Brittany to the Channel. Not you, comrade, you’ve no connections here. Time to think of yourself and your family.”

  René had no rebuttal, gradually coming to terms with their failure. “Fine, you’re right, I have to get them to safety, but first we need to dump these damned uniforms. Suggestions?”

  “There’s a tavern a few blocks from here, beyond those warehouses. He pointed west. “It’s called La Reveille, in case we’re separated. Closed for the night, of course, but the old gal who runs it lives above the joint. A sympathizer, so she’ll help out. Secretly listens to the BBC and thinks Churchill’s a saint. I’ve holed up there since I first hit town.” He buttoned up the tortured uniform jacket. “If we stick to the backstreets and the shadows, we’ll make it there fine.”

  René ran his hands the length of each soaked trouser leg, spreading water on the pavement at his feet. “Then let’s get to it. My wife will be worried sick, and the Boches will have Old Town sewn up tighter than a drum. Half the coastal forces will soon be out looking for us,” he wiggled his toes to restore circulation. “But we run across any of our team, we free them, agreed?”

  “Of course, Rénard. We’ll give it a try.”

  They moved out under cover of the rail cars, keeping low, the gravel underfoot torturing the soles of their shoeless feet.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Saint-Nazaire, Occupied France

  10 September 1941

  A firefight rattled the distant horizon, and searchlights turned night to day over the lower stretches of the Bassin de Saint-Nazaire. By now trucks would have thundered down through New Town and crossed the square, spitting out well-armed Boches. Erika knew the partisans had failed, knew René and his comrades could die. They might already have fallen. And then the military authorities and Gestapo would search door-to-door, hear of a young family recently arrived at the tavern, and the neighbors would reveal everything, if only to protect their own.

  Erika was thankful she’d abandoned Old Town early that morning the moment René had left for the final preparatory meeting. Both had agreed Geneviève’s inn lay too close to the pens. Putting to use Félix Mercier’s rough sketch of the northern borough, Leo had taken charge of their little exodus. He led Erika through the narrow streets with Sophie on her hip. Their circuitous route bypassed the warehouses and rail yards and Erika thought they blended well with the morning pedestrian traffic. She kept a constant eye out for a possible Gestapo tail. Only once did they draw unwanted attention, an admiring whistle from a Wehrmacht sergeant. She’d ignored him in the time-tested manner of any good Frenchwoman by holding her nose high.

  Janine Mercier had welcomed them as long-absent family, immediately sharing eggs and barley coffee. A fisherman’s brood ate better than most since fresh catch was always in great dema
nd in the underground market now that foodstuffs demanded such a premium. Janine’s teenaged daughters were already off in school, leaving Leo and Sophie to spend the afternoon with the girls’ outgrown toys.

  An anxious evening passed with no news of the raid. Leo and Sophie sat with the shy Mercier twins over a dinner of fish stew before bedding down on a braided rug near the hearth. Once the children slept, Erika gratefully accepted a sherry. The women sat side-by-side on a rough-hewn bench, talking until words no longer had purpose. They passed the hours staring into the glowing coals. Each was lost in her personal troubled thoughts when the muted gunfire brought them to their feet. The women rushed into the street to join neighbors looking toward the basins. Seeing nothing but the glow in the sky, they returned to the hearth.

  Shortly after one a.m. and a knock at the front door. Erika started but remained seated. Janine opened and greeted someone by name, then spoke briefly in hushed tones before rejoining her guest. The pallor on her face sent a chill down Erika’s spine. She could only listen numbly to the report: “All is lost, the soldiers were tipped off and waiting for our men. Some are dead, others believed under arrest.” She stirred the embers in the hearth, raising a feeble flame. She kept her back to Erika. “Nothing on your husband.”

  She stepped into the adjoining room to check on her daughters, leaving Erika to consider their shared fate. A minute later Janine sat down beside Erika and grasped her hand. Erika felt the tremor before she saw the tears. “My Félix…he’s gone.” Erika gasped. Janine’s voice remained barely audible. “Georges says the Boches laid them out in a row and there was no mistaking Félix’s missing ear.”

  Erika took the distraught woman into her arms. Janine sobbed for several minutes before drawing away with a grateful nod. She blew her nose and straightened her shoulders. “I’ve family over at Pornichet, so we’ll be heading there while it’s still dark.” She stared into the coals, dabbing at her eyes. “But what of you? You’ve nowhere to go, and they’ll be all over this place once they know it’s Félix.”

  Conscious of Janine’s tragic loss, Erika still felt compelled to ask: “And no mention of a man in Kriegsmarine officer’s uniform?”

  “Georges couldn’t see all the bodies. It was dark, soldiers everywhere. It’s just that he knows…he knew my Félix. One of his deckhands, as devoted to my husband as a son.” She remained silent for several moments. “Perhaps your Rénard was more fortunate?”

  Erika wanted to reach out and console Janine again but knew they would both collapse in anguish if she tried. “We must now count on action and not fickle luck.”

  Janine seemed calmer now, resolute. “So where will you go?”

  “No idea.” She focused on the loudly ticking wall clock. “I have to assume the worst and waiting simply puts us all at further risk.”

  Janine stood abruptly and took Erika’s hand. “Come, we’ve things to do. Our boat’s at the wharf. You and your children can hide there until you decide what comes next. Look for La Demoiselle, a smack with rust-red trim, a two-master but with longer keel and broader beam than most. She’s berthed down Rue du Rivage, third pier to the left once you reach the boardwalk.”

  “You’re sure, Janine? What about your crew? Won’t they be compromised if we hide out there?”

  “The Germans will take everything, including our trawler, so the boat’s already lost to us.” Janine swallowed hard. “But the Boches will need time to track us all down. Too many locals involved. With my Félix gone, Georges and Michel will avoid the piers. The crews always meet for a quick drink before heading out, and word spreads fast at the taverns.”

  Janine stopped short and turned away before she spoke again. “I must wake the children, tell them their father’s gone and somehow get us over to Pornichet. They’re sure to be watching all roads out. You know, I’d gladly take you along, but my parents could never handle so many and strangers would grab attention in the village.”

  “No, of course not.” Erika was already picturing hiding out on a fishing boat surrounded by river traffic. A challenge, but short term it would have to do. “The boat’s a very gracious offer, and I thank you.” Erika’s practical side took hold. “And I hate to ask, but what of food and drink?” She gestured to the sleeping Leo and Sophie. “The children, you know.”

  “Dry provisions are always onboard for when the men go out, plus water and cider. Should be some beer in bottles, as well. Come to the kitchen with me. I’ve some fresh things you can take with you now. I’ll have enough to carry, what with the girls and all.” Janine filled a canvas bag with hard-boiled eggs, crackers and nuts, some hard sausage and a chunk of cheese. She added a loaf of coarse bread. “Just avoid the other crews—the curious may have loose lips.”

  Erika awakened her children and hushed Leo gently when he protested. “I’m still sleeping, Maman.” His voice a mumble. “Must we go now? It’s still dark outside.”

  “Yes, love, and see that Sophie is dressed quickly. Tell me if her diaper needs changing and I’ll handle it. Morning isn’t far off and then we’ll get some breakfast. For now, we’re going to the Mercier’s trawler.”

  “Like the fishing boats we watched from the room?” His eyes brightened at the prospect as he helped Sophie dress while Erika quickly rearranged things in the suitcase. “Are the twins coming with us to the boat?” Leo had taken an instant liking to the Mercier girls.

  Sophie, chimed in, “Boat! Boat!”

  “Yes, Sophie, ‘boat.’” No time now for anything but escape. “Sorry, Leo, the twins can’t join us. Perhaps another time.”

  “How’s Papa to know where we’ve gone?”

  Erika bit her lip, curbing her fears. “We’ll leave him a note, right?”

  Leo appeared unconvinced. “Last time we had to go find him.”

  This time was different, but night was advancing, and René was still missing as the clock chimed two. She needed to find La Demoiselle before the morning crews reached the docks and they faced unwanted scrutiny.

  She felt a wave of nausea. Morning sickness, not grief. Not yet. Grief could come later when she had a sound plan and the children were safe. Somewhere. She should have told René about the baby. He deserved to know.

  The tavern keeper provided René with a pair of old shoes, in good shape but a size too small. The trousers and woolen sweater smelled of mothballs. René gladly accepted a faded workman’s jacket and a soft cap as he stood there soaked and shivering. What she offered Malraux was a slightly better fit. Her husband had never returned from the war up north. After a year without word, she knew he wasn’t coming back.

  It was clear the other saboteurs had never found a skiff nor entered the pens. And the lock team had also failed in its mission. Someone had squealed, perhaps someone sharing too much with a curious neighbor. None of that mattered now. The partisans were either gone or soon to meet a noose or bullet. With luck, a few were on the run, but it was only a matter of time. The Boches would search everywhere: outbound trains, buses, trucks, cars, farm wagons. Whatever moved would be fair game. Malraux would head northwest on foot, working his way inland, dependent only on his own quick wits. With no family to worry about, a man traveling alone might actually elude capture. A family of four less likely.

  Barely a block from the apartment a foot patrol spotted the men and ordered them to halt and identify. As agreed beforehand, each tore off in a different direction, hoping to divide the pursuers. It didn’t work. René knew the patrol saw a limping man as an easier target. Though their bullets went astray, the clamor attracted a guard dog team that soon picked up the chase. Within minutes he was perspiring heavily. He ditched the jacket as he ran.

  He ignored the constriction of the shoes. Blisters would heal. Finding his family was all that mattered, getting them to safety his reason for running. From moment to moment he broke out into full moonlight before finding shelter again in the shadows. The alleyways were treacherous, dark and narrow, his full concentration needed to avoid a misstep and
fall. The limp caused a painful stitch with each stride but wouldn’t weaken his resolve. Any delay would cost him his wife, his children.

  The pursuers were closer now, the baying louder. He realized the folly in abandoning a jacket drenched in his sweat. The wolfhounds would have his scent and control the chase. Ironic for an Alsatian to be trapped by the jaws of dogs named for his heritage. Panting heavily, he paused at the intersection of three tight passages, uncertain of his next move. Hands on knees, he fought for breath.

  Mercier had mapped out a route and given an address when he’d volunteered his home as refuge for Erika and the children. René had memorized the diagram before handing it to Erika. Now with the enemy in pursuit, the convoluted passageways slowed every step and worry frustrated his memory. Turning right would bring him back to the rail yards and industrial district. A left turn would take him farther from the fisherman’s quarter. The center path still felt right and he ran on.

  The streets were empty. A civilian breaking curfew and hearing the commotion would hole up away from prying eyes and probing questions. René thought he’d gained a bit of a lead, but perhaps the buildings only muted the sounds of the dogs. At one intersection he spotted the slits of headlamps prowling the narrow cross streets closer to the river. Soon other pursuers would join in the hunt. How he detested being prey rather than predator!

  The warehouses gave way to tightly-cramped housing units several stories tall. The ground-level businesses were shuttered for the night, but he knew he was on the right track. Here a chandler’s shop beside a café, over there a grocery and a rope maker with nets hanging from the eaves. He knew he was nearing the wharves. At last he spotted the street name remembered from Félix’s map, Rue du Rivage, the house number suddenly clear in his mind. The goal was close. The stitch in his leg was steady now, his breath coming in ragged gasps as he moved from stoop to stoop. There it was—a small oval in blue and white enamel. Number 303. The dogs were barely a block or two behind. He couldn’t allow the pursuers to see him stop.