Chapter 14: Kristalnacht

As the dark clouds of a summer storm loomed outside the windows of the apartment, Madame Trousseau shifted slightly in amongst her nest of half-finished scarves, worn-out sweaters, and patched tea cosies, knitting. Time-worn fingers made slow, steady strokes along a never-ending river of woollen yarn, as the old clock on the mantelpiece sliced time with each click and clack of the needles. Beside her, a low candle whispered in a draft.

Monsieur Trousseau was sprawled on the chaise longue in front of the hearth, his hat upon his face. He tossed in his sleep, pursued by dreams.

Madame Trousseau looked up from her knitting at the clock. "Ouch!" She sucked on her finger where the slipped needle had pricked it.

"Hm?" Monsieur snatched the hat from his face, and half rose.

"Nothing, nothing," she said. "I just slipped a bit, that's all."

"You're okay, then?"

"Yes, yes."

"Oh."

Back and forth swung the pendulum.

"Terrible weather we're having," said Madame.

"Dark out there," replied Monsieur.

Madame forced herself to smile. "Well, good thing we're here, safe and sound then!"

Thunder rolled in the distance. She took up her needles.

Monsieur looked up at the clock. "Still not back."

"He'll be all right," she replied. "Yes…he'll be fine. I'm sure of it. He, he knows enough to stay out of a storm like this. He'll be home soon, I know it."

Monsieur sighed.

"I'm sure he'll be okay," said Madame, to herself.

An awkward pause. The click of clockwork filled it.

"Where'd we go wrong, Cosette?"

"Toulouse?"

The words plummeted into the silence, pulled down by the weight of years. "How'd we do it? Drive them away? Our own children…"

Madame paused in her knitting, and pondered the work of her hands. "We…we only did what was best for them." A pause. "Didn't we?"

"Right. 'Only.'"

A bell went 'ding.' Mechanically, the old man swivelled off the chaise longue, stumped to the kitchen, and came back pushing a rickety television tray. Hot, red brew gurgled into a pair of cups.

"Sugar?"

"Eh?" said Madame, surprised.

He stirred a level spoonful into the far cup, wordlessly.

Madame shuffled in her seat, then pulled a long line of yarn from the basket by her chair. Monsieur raised his cup, toasting the evening.

The old clock struck twelve. The chimes at midnight played away.

There was a tremendous crash of breaking glass from beyond the wall.

Madame jumped. "What —"

A million firecrackers exploded in her ears. Splinters sprayed from the far wall. The length of yarn twanged, and went limp, cut clean through. Monsieur cursed as his teacup exploded in his fingers, sending tea and shrapnel everywhere. Something on the mantelpiece broke.

Monsieur blinked at the porcelain loop clutched in his fingers. He reached up with his free hand to grab whatever had landed on his hat, and looked at it.

It was a minute hand.

Madame leapt to her feet, quivering with energy. "What in God's name is — Oooaaah!"

With a cry, Monsieur dove from his seat and tackled his wife to the floor, just as a second burst of gunfire ripped through the room.

"Toulouse! Toulouse, get off me!"

He held onto her, despite her struggles, pressed her to the floor, and covered her bodily, his back between her and the far wall.

Something pinged off the television. A lamp hopped off a table and fell to the floor. Pictures jumped, twisted, and jolted on the mantelpiece, accompanied in their death-throes by the tinkle of glass and the crackle of wood. The spout parted ways from the teapot, atomized. Dust puffed from the side of Madame's chair. Monsieur grunted audibly.

"What's happening!?" shouted Madame. "Toulouse?"

He pressed her to the ground.

Beyond the wall, Bedlam carried on with its performance. Clattering pots and utensils joined the chorus, as did muffled thuds. Things crashed and tinkled. Something cracked. A man screamed, repeatedly. Another hail of bullets. Something whistled through the air. Someone gurgled, and hit the ground, hard. A woman roared. A man screams for mercy were cut off by three tremendous cracks. A slab of meat hit the floor.

A pause.

A wounded animal bellowed, and charged across the floor.

There was a single, percussive, 'pop.'

A clatter of feet. Someone ran into something solid. Hard.

And as suddenly as it had begun, the symphony of chaos was over.

Madame gasped for breath. Shakily, she tried to get to her feet. Monsieur whimpered, and pulled her back down.

Outside, a floorboard creaked twice in rapid succession. Feet pounded down the hall.

"Mireille!" shouted a familiar voice. "It's the Duceppes! We're coming in!" Smash, smash, the splinter of wood, a door crashing to the floor. More footsteps, slower this time. "Well, you've been busy," said the voice.

"Ambush," said a woman. "It was them."

"Ah. That 'them,' or…?"

"It's always 'them,'" she replied.

Madame struggled to get up. Her husband clutched at her tattered shawl. "Stay down, Cosette!" he said.

"They might be hurt," she said, crawling to the door. "We should help them."

"No," moaned Monsieur. "Don't go…stay! Keep quiet! Let it lie!"

"I've done that for thirty years, and look what it's gotten me," she said. "It's time I paid attention to what's outside my home."

Cautiously, she edged open the front door.

The door to apartment 3 had been battered to the ground; a good portion of the doorjamb was reduced to kindling. She could see a man in a well-tailored evening gown standing a few steps beyond it. "…Came prepared," he said. "FAMAS. Kevlar."

"My god," said a foreign woman, "isn't that…?"

"Yes," said a woman. "It is."

She edged into the hallway, on tip-toes. Glass tinkled. "We'll lead them away," said the woman.

"There's more coming?" asked the man. She crept past the fallen door.

"There's always more. Can you take care of things here?"

"Med-evac and cleaners; they're on their way."

"Good."

Madame rounded the corner, and gasped.

It was 1942. The furniture was smashed, the walls and ceiling riddled with bullets. Three soldiers lay amongst the debris, each in their own pool of blood. Three others stood over them, calmly discussing matters.

"No!" She stumbled back.

"Madame?" The man turned, swore, and grabbed her. "Get out of here! Now!"

"No! No! Let me go! Toulouse! Help!"

"Cosette!" Monsieur burst through the door, stumbled forward, and leaned against the wall, wheezing.

"Madame Trousseau! It's me, Maurice! From across the hall! Please, calm down!"

She tried. "Monsieur…Duceppe?"

"Yes," he said.

Her eyes crept to the hand on her shoulder. "Is…is that a gun?"

He released her. "Uh, yes…yes it is."

"Oh."

Slowly, her eyes crept away from that terrifying object to survey the horrors all around it.

It wasn't 1942.

It was now, which was worse, much worse.

The smell of gunpowder, blood, and plaster dust hung in the air. Bullet holes riddled the ceiling and walls. Chairs and tables were turned and tossed over everywhere. Shards of glass, splinters of wood, and bits of plastic littered the floor. On the far side of the room, where Cherise was, a man in a dark suit was slumped on the floor, with a rifle in his hand and some sort of cleaver sticking out of him. Before her was another man, his face bloodied beyond recognition. A broken pool cue was next to him. And as she turned, slowly, she saw a third man, who had apparently tripped and pitched face-first into the wall, leaving a huge dent in the drywall.

Glass tinkled. She jumped.

There, illuminated by a flash of lighting, were two young women, paused halfway through the process of climbing out one of the broken bay windows.

Realization hit her in time with the thunder-crack.

"M-Miss Yuumura?" she whispered, terrified.

Neither turned, or moved.

"Mireille?"

The taller one flinched, as if struck. "Evening…Madame," she said.

"What, what's going on here? What is…all this?"

"This is…where I live."

Thunder rattled the floorboards.

"Th-these men, here," said Madame. "All of them…did you…?"

The tall one nodded. "It's what I do." She seemed to slouch slightly. "I had no choice," she added.

"But…but I thought you said you were a fashion consultant!"

She hung her head, as if exhausted. "I…haven't been completely honest with you, Madame."

"Oh."

"Please…take care of them," she said. The Duceppes nodded, imperceptibly.

"Mireille! Wait!" Madame reached for her.

She looked back, her features blackened by the outside light. "Cosette," said a hoarse voice. "I…I'm sorry…"

Light split the sky. For a millisecond, Madame caught a glimpse of a young, pained face, a single tear shining on her cheek.

And then she was gone.

Feet clattered away over the rooftops.

Madame sank to the floor, slowly; Maurice eased her down. "Madame?" he asked.

"My…God…"

Cherise stepped over one of the bodies and knelt by her. "It's all right, Madame; you're safe now."

She shrank from her, terrified. "And…and you two, you two as well…you're the same?"

Maurice scratched the back of his head, embarrassed. "They're freelance, actually. We're, ah, government."

"Oh."

"We didn't want to endanger you," explained Cherise. "Ignorance is the best protection. Usually."

Madame gave her a blank look.

Maurice cleared his throat. "Listen, ah, we've called some teams; they'll clean up around here. Please, just try to relax."

"My God…" Her hands fell to the floor. One of them felt something. Mechanically, she picked it up.

Whatever it was, it was quite mangled. It felt plastic. And it was definitely white. She studied it, curiously.

A hoarse breath made her turn. Her husband, still leaning against the wall, had turned white as moonlight.

"Toulouse?"

Swiftly, he snatched the object from her fingers, and held it up to the light.

It fell from his shaking fingers, and bounced on the floor.

"Peter…" he whispered. "No…"

"Toulouse? Toulouse!" She sprang to her feet and caught him just before he hit the floor. Suddenly, her hand felt warm and wet. "Toulouse! You're bleeding! You've been shot!"

"Bandages!" ordered Maurice, as he tore a long strip off his evening gown. Cherise leapt for a first aid kit on a nearby wall.

"No!" Monsieur struggled upright, sweat streaming down his face.

"Toulouse! Lie still!"

"No!" He gasped for breath. "No! Peter! You must find him! Help him!"

Maurice and Cherise glanced at the bodies, the mangled mask, and then each other.

"I'll find him," said Maurice, rising.

"No." Cherise stopped him. "I'm faster. And I know where to look." Outside, just audible over the rumbling clouds, were the sounds of distant gunshots.

"Go." She clambered out the window, and was away.

"Peter!" Monsieur moaned. "My son…what have you gotten yourself into, why, why…?" He collapsed, sobbing.

"Toulouse! Oh Peter!" cried Madame, cradling her husband. "Where are you, Peter!"