AUTHOR'S NOTE: My thanks to all who of offered comments. I appreciate it very much.
CHAPTER SEVEN
The Coeur de Lion - July 1944
The Coeur de Lion was alive. People came to eat, to drink, to listen to sultry songs with piano accompaniment. Some came to relax with a glass of wine after a hard day's work and forget about all their troubles. Others came to while away the time because they had little else to do. There were those who came on pre-arranged trysts, imagining that their presence or their intention was not known to anyone. St. Clair was a large town but small compared to cities such as Marseille or Toulon or Le Havre. Even so, the Coeur de Lion was perhaps the last place to have a clandestine meeting.
There was a quiet, efficient scurrying between the tables as waiters dipped and balanced trays carrying escargot and wine from the estate of St. Clair. They had to ensure that not a drop of the precious Chateau Latour or, for those who preferred, Lanzerac Rosé or bourbon, was spilled. After all, the clients were willing to part with their francs and Reichsmark for a full glass. They also braved those clients who demanded their money's worth for their food while listening to Solange de Neuf seductively crooning her latest Cole Porter or Irving Berlin song. She was a popular songstress, and day by day her repertoire expanded as she tried out the latest songs.
Katrine du Pléssis's mouth curved into an unwilling smile as she looked around her establishment. For a moment - a moment only, she conceded - she could pack her troubles in her old kit bag and smile. It was an old English song her Uncle Henri had sung when she was still very young. Pack up her troubles. It sounded so easy, without complications to momentarily put aside the burdens of her life and postpone her misery.
Misery could be packaged in a smile. That way no one could gain access, however small the aperture, into her life. A moment only and she could believe that the world she had created inside the Coeur de Lion was a perfect world in which men and women enjoyed themselves. A world where lovers met and argued. A world where deals were struck, even simple ones like negotiating the payment of the next bag of rice and ignoring the irony of sitting in a smoke filled restaurant discussing their privation. A world where there was indeed no war, no defeat, no armistice, no victory, despite the presence of German military.
Tonight they appeared effusive, occasionally bursting into raucous laughter, slapping their thighs as they enjoyed some joke told at their table, or sang a ribald drinking lied while Solange was between songs. Sometimes they applauded as Solange eased effortlessly into Cheek to Cheek.
Katrine's smile became grim. They could afford to be effusive. It was the hallmark of the conqueror. After they conquered the town, what else was there but to take pleasure in the kill? It played games with the hapless, throwing them around then suddenly, swiftly, the final thrust.
The Germans were in the position of being, like Richard III, in a giving vein, a platform from which they could command with disdain and not fear reprisal while extending generosity of a kind. The conqueror's whip was in their hands and they could, as the hour or the mood or the inclination suited them, be friendly, be generous, be pleasant and those on the receiving end of that deception could, for a few moments at least, enjoy the illusion of peace. With Richard, they had something in common - the ability to make venom taste like wine. The wilful seduction of the untrained in which the victim actually believed the enemy could be viewed through tinted glasses so that they no longer appeared evil. The uniform bearing the insignia of the Iron Cross became just another apparel of attractive regimentals. Still, anything remotely Teutonic clomping down the cobbled lanes in heavy boots elicited nothing but fear in the hearts of the people of St. Clair.
Katrine made few concessions to their humanity, for they had none. Dehumanisation was hidden behind their effusive smiles and counterfeit friendliness. They were never to be trusted, and on their own level, even their own terms, must be out-witted, outsmarted, so as to hit back at them with great cunning. A snake clothed like a snake would have been viewed with distrust and fear accorded it out of habit and tradition, but clothed like the fighting mongoose, it could sometimes be hailed as seductive, persuasive, victorious, easily overcoming the oppressed and appearing reasonable. Katrine sighed at that thought. One day the oppressed would become the indomitable mongoose and fight to the death its victor. Perhaps, she thought, France, through the thousands of men and women willing to lay down their lives for her freedom, already possessed the steel and heart of the determined mongoose. At heart, Katrine believed, France had not surrendered. Her government did.
"If I give you the moon,
you'll grow tired of it soon…"
Solange crooned the words in her sultry voice, the men sitting closest to her listening with their tongues hanging out like panting dogs. They were about to spill their wine, so lost they were. A neat camouflage if ever there was one. Solange was hypnotic and could spin them into a trance. Afterwards she'd look disdainfully at them and declare that men were weak.
Tonight was one of their quiet nights. Quiet in the absence of any activities that would have given the German officers reason to suspect yet another act of subversion, another cunning ploy at diverting the enemy under the guise of keeping the war outside. Katrine cringed at that. It could be a look, a loaf of bread, a bottle of wine, a book, a camera, the label on a bottle, a note, any small item that could hide something - a code, message, intelligence.
The Germans were a suspicious bunch but she kept one step ahead of that suspicion, allaying the smallest doubt with her sweet smile, expansive gestures and the easy charm she'd cultivated over the past two years for them. She was affable when she interceded in a pending spat, welcoming new patrons with her now favourite directive, "leave the war outside". Also, Katrine's ingenuity in devising more and more creative ways of relaying or receiving critical intelligence to and from Allied High Command or just acquiring another piece of communications equipment was what had kept them alive and still working without being suspected. The Coeur de Lion was, after all, a place of hidden talents. As long as she smiled, Solange seduced them with her voice, Lamine kept the wine flowing, they were relatively safe. It did not, however, quell the ever present threat of the military presence. That was always there, however understated.
"Leave the war outside."
It was easy to mouth, she thought. So easy. Yet, with the best will in the world, she couldn't append any earthly and heartfelt conviction to them. How could it when the war was right here, in St. Clair, in the Coeur de Lion in the form of uniformed men who, despite their wide grins and brash laughter at one moment, could in the next be brutal butchers in the name of a herrenvolk ideal they believed in. Yes, she sighed softly, the war was here, in her sweet Coeur de Lion, her precious St. Clair, her beloved France.
For now she graced them with her charm and waltzed between the tables on her way to join a patron here, engaged in light-hearted chatter there. Tonight she was dressed in her white tuxedo, her favourite attire. She knew she looked good, and to confirm that thought, she raised her hand to touch her auburn hair, feeling its softness, the wavy texture the latest she had seen in a movie magazine called Variety when she looked at a picture of Susan Hayward.
"Katrin."
She stiffened a fraction, too little for anyone to have noticed. But she knew the voice, knew the particular Germanic inflection given to her name. Staccato, second syllable short and sharp. The voice was rich, - like an actor's - smooth, much smoother than she would have credited the person of Herr Kommandant Jürgen Schult. Katrine turned to look at the man sitting alone at a table. Always alone when he was in the Coeur de Lion. Ruggedly handsome, his hair very blonde and his eyes green, he was holding a cigarette in his hand and a spiral of smoke wafted from him as he spoke. His mouth curved into a smile. Her heart thundered and she hoped no one noticed her slight pause or the flush to her cheeks. In December, Jürgen Schult had replaced Herr Kommandant Klaus Wassermann as the new commanding officer of the German occupied forces in St. Clair, a duty he - in his own words - performed to the letter for Der Führer. "All other pleasures are my own, Katrin," he told her imperiously one evening when…. She shut her thoughts from the direction they were forcing, pulling herself to keep looking at the man and appear for all the world the smiling hostess of the nightclub and restaurant Le Coeur de Lion.
"Herr Kommandant," she gushed. "I thought you might not grace us with your presence tonight - "
"Katrin, call me Jürgen." He smiled at her, and she heard the veiled command in that smooth voice.
"Only when it's not official business, Herr Kommandant."
Jürgen Schult's hand shot out and he gripped her wrist. It appeared aggressive but his touch was surprisingly gentle. There was a gleam in his green eyes as he appraised her. Katrine marvelled again at this man and what he was doing. No one noticed anything, the little tableau important to no one but them. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Lamine, the bartender, cock an eyebrow. She gave a mental shrug. He would notice. Bartenders noticed and listened. Jürgen pulled her so that she sat down on the chair opposite him. She grit her teeth.
"But we never have official business, do we, Katrin?"
"Whatever it is, Herr Kommandant, I take little pleasure in exchanging with you…" Her voice trailed away, forcing her smile to remain in place. Katrine wondered idly why he had singled her out for his attention from the first minute he stepped into the Coeur de Lion..
"We exchange it nonetheless…"
"With the few choices I have, " she returned, unable to keep the bitterness from her voice, "you don't leave me much room, do you?"
She turned to steal a quick glance at the other patrons, the smile never leaving her face. Her hair bounced as she moved and when Katrine looked at Jürgen again, she saw how his green eyes smouldered.
"You know my pleasures, Katrin," he whispered, his tone low enough, the smile appearing as if they were discussing weather patterns. Jürgen took another puff of his cigarette, blowing the smoke slowly in her face. She noted the French brand he was smoking and thought that they poached everything French. A vain, if hedonistic view of finding things not theirs far more pleasurable to indulge in. They called others art their own. Jürgen was a man of culture, a concession Katrine made only because she needed to know her adversary fully to understand the way he operated and to pit her own cunning against his. She was growing tired, so tired of keeping one step ahead of this man who could in another time, another place have been a man worthy of knowing. Now, she had to go along, even if it meant…
"You're very fond of music, Herr Kommandant. I'll grant you that," she said softly, trying to change the direction of the conversation.
"Call me Jürgen," he commanded again, leaning forward so that his face was close to hers.
"As the Officer Commanding of your unit here in St. Clair, Herr Kommandant, I accord you the necessary protocol of addressing you. I cannot - "
"That's not what you said two nights ago, Katrin. Now, do you remember?"
She remembered. Only, she didn't want to think about it. She had already lost so much, too much. Her beloved Joseph and Célestine were gone. Jürgen knew only too well how to use her memories of them as leverage to get what he wanted. He was smart, aware of his own power to use excessive force with her. All he needed was the suggestion of a threat which, however much he veiled it, she knew he could carry out as the whim suited him. But then, Jürgen Schult was not a man of whims. With his cunning, he knew which buttons to push; with her cunning, she could remain dry-eyed and no one, least of all Jürgen Schult, could see her heart weeping. Beneath the handsome exterior and his aristocratic bearing, he was hard as steel, a coldblooded killer if provoked.
"Jürgen," she finally relented, ignoring his reminder, "the other patrons need my attention."
His mouth twisted into a smile, the flash in his eyes the only sign that she had crossed him. Katrine wanted to rub his face in the dirt. She felt like shooting a bullet through his handsome head and enjoying his surprise as his head exploded. For the moment he was in control and enjoying her discomfiture. His hand reached for hers again, a brief touch this time, but no less threatening. She evaded his penetrating gaze, a fleeting, though intense, look he gave her.
"Tonight, Katrin."
His message was clear.
"Not now, Jürgen."
"Mahler or Wagner?"
"Forget it."
Her chair scraped as she moved abruptly to rise, causing Solange to glance lazily in her direction. Solange offered a smile then continued with her next song.
"When we're out together
dancing cheek to cheek…"
The Coeur de Lion was a restaurant, and a good one too, considering the lack of variety in their fare as a result of strict rationing. Right now it was certainly not heaven. But Solange was deliberate as she mouthed the words and caught Katrine's eye at the same moment. Katrine made a mental note to check Solange and then reprimand her. The woman was sometimes too subtle for her own good. Katrine didn't look back at Jürgen Schult as she made her way to the other tables. She stopped by old Jean-Pierre Beaumont, one of her oldest patrons and Brigitte's grandfather, a kindly gentleman who asked:
"Êtes-vous bien, ma petite?"
She took issue on the "petite", but felt her spirits lift as she touched old Jean-Pierre's shoulder. When last did anyone call her by that endearment? A lifetime ago, it seemed, when Joseph called her and Célestine that. Katrine smiled and allowed his concern to wash over her for a moment. A luxury, as she had little time to worry about how concerned others were for her safety. But clearly some people did notice her little tête-à-tête with Jürgen Schult and old Jean-Pierre, who was like a second father to her, had picked up on the vibes so quickly. She sighed. It was one of the hazards, if not her major pain at the moment, of living, working and running a restaurant and nightclub in St. Clair. Jean-Pierre was still staring at her, waiting for her to allay his fears, she surmised.
"Je suis très bien, Jean-Pierre."
It gratified her immensely to see the old man nod, his eyes almost closing as he smiled. It was so easy to please some people. So easy to convince the old man she was okay. Now, if it were Brigitte asking that question.
"Brigitte will see you later tonight, Katrine," Jean-Pierre said as if he read her thoughts.
"Tell her I may be held up, Jean-Pierre."
"I will tell her, but my granddaughter will not understand, ma petite."
No, she wouldn't, Katrine thought. Brigitte hated Jürgen Schult. She hated what she knew he was doing to Katrine, and that made her all the more determined to see the Germans leave St. Clair, see them beaten and bludgeoned to death. Preferably to enjoy lining up Jürgen and his cohort, Lieutenant Heinz Welthagen, against a wall and spraying them with bullets. Welthagen had made a beeline for the fiery Brigitte when they arrived in St. Clair. Brigitte fell for his charms, not aware that while she could gain important intelligence from him, he was doing the same with her. She'd become pregnant, a situation that had her cousin Berry fuming so much, he threatened to kill Brigitte himself. He'd reproached her for falling once again for foreigners, and ignoring the fact that there was only one person in all of St. Clair who loved her beyond his own life and bicycles. The young woman was left high and dry by Welthagen who'd denied the child was his, then promptly took another young St. Clair woman to his bed.
Every time some Germans walked past Brigitte, she'd call them "You Prussian batards!"
Katrine had to get her people together very soon. Tomorrow morning if possible. There was no way she could meet with them tonight, not after Jürgen's promise. They had to get another message to Allied High Command. They needed help desperately. A regiment of Allied troops would rout the enemy once and for all and send them packing. News of the Allied invasion in Normandy had been greeted with delight, but for them in St. Clair and other towns just outside Free France, things seemed to move too slowly. She knew through Berry Beaumont, Brigitte's cousin, that cities like Toulon, Lille, Orléans and Caen had been liberated by the Allied forces but paid the price with great loss of civilian life.
The German regiment stationed in St. Clair had taken the news of the Normandy invasion with their usual arrogance if not complacency, and declared that Germany's 352nd Panzer Division alone would counter the offensives of Field Marshall Montgomery and General Eisenhower. She knew a panzer division was stationed at Vidouville.
With their limited radio communications, it was going to be difficult to contact the Allied High Command again, but she'd rather struggle with her group and risk everything than the prospect of giving Jürgen Schult any pleasure. And tonight…She didn't want to think about it, forcing her smile back as she replied finally:
"I have work to do, Jean-Pierre. You understand that, don't you?"
There was understanding in his eyes, Katrine noted. She wanted to hug him, as well as allow herself to have a good cry. She hadn't done that since…forever. But for now, she had to feed on the old man's deep understanding. It had to be enough for her.
Katrine moved away from him, giving his shoulder another gentle squeeze as she made her way to the bar. Claude had just launched into the first bars of "Moonlight becomes you" which elicited cries and whistles of satisfaction from the patrons. They obviously loved Solange's rendition of the song. Lamine was industriously shining glasses, an occupation he quickly adopted the moment Katrine walked towards the counter. Katrine grinned, allowing the moments of unease with Jürgen Schult to wash from her. She relegated Jürgen to the back of her mind where she hoped he would vanish as the evening progressed.
It was still relatively early and she intended to be the perfect hostess even though her insides were churning with worry.
Lamine Bhoutayeb tried to pretend he didn't notice her little run-in with Jürgen Schult. They had been friends since Paris. For a moment Katrine stalled as she allowed old memories to fill her. If it weren't for Lamine, she would have gone crazy. For a while she had been demented. He had literally saved her life after Joseph and Célestine had been taken from her. A thousand times she regretted going out to the country that day to hide art works. A thousand times she wished she'd taken Célestine with her. After months of searching, Lamine had simply pulled her into his embrace and told her, "We live to fight another day, Katrine."
It was strange, Katrine thought, that France's colonies were the last to fight when the Vichy government had already signed France over to the enemy, so to speak. Lamine considered a bullet wound in the leg no price at all when his regiment was crushed by the Germans.
Katrine had been frantic, knowing what fate awaited her husband and daughter. Her distraught "where are you taking them?" fell on deaf ears as they shoved Joseph and a screaming Célestine into the truck. Lucien Blériot had yelled, "They are Jews!" She had no recollection of the events which followed as Blériot struck her with the butt of his rifle.
If it hadn't been for Lamine…
Now he looked at her with concern, pausing the rapid movement of cloth and glass.
Katrine pressed her palms on the counter.
"I know what you're thinking, Lamine."
"Then you should know, Katrine, your tête-à-tête with Kommandant Schult bodes no good." Lamine put down the too shiny glass, contemplated taking the next one and be industrious again, then decided against it. "The Chateau Latour should be good enough for Herr Kommandant, Madame, or shall we poison him?" Lamine's attempt at levity made her laugh. It sounded so incongruous for the normally staid, reserved friend whom she knew carried a heavy burden of surviving a massacre in which close friends and comrades-in-arms had died. He'd still never told her what he'd done those few days he was gone, just before they left for St. Clair.
"Tonight's off, my friend. The earliest we meet will be tomorrow. Get everyone together, will you?"
"Katrine, I am indeed sorry," Lamine said, nodding at the same time in acknowledgement of her instruction. His dark skin seemed pale, she thought, and she knew he was, as always, concerned for her safety. He knew the implication of the smoke Jürgen blew in her face, of the way Jürgen's hand had covered hers. Just as he'd sensed in the beginning when Jürgen Schult had looked at her too long when he first entered the Coeur de Lion. He knew that the arrogant German held her hostage as surely as if Jürgen had taken a knife and pressed it against her neck.
Katrine shrugged. "We have work to do, Lamine."
"Oui, Madame…"
Solange finished with:
"Hold me close and hold me fast
the magic spell will last
This is la vie en rose
When you kiss me, Heaven sighs
And though I close my eyes
I see la vie en rose…"
It was long past twelve when Katrine finally stood in her lounge. The evening had been a success despite the minor rumblings. They had earned enough money tonight to make a few important purchases. Had it not been for the minor rumbling, she might have enjoyed herself, but her evening had been clouded by Jürgen's veiled threats.
Now, all she wanted to do was play some music, lie back and relax. In a macabre way she wished she had the kind of selection Jürgen Schult had. The one time she had been in his quarters - a rather clever way in which she had been encouraged to visit him there - she had seen his impressive collection of records. It was the one common interest they had. Katrine summarily dismissed any thought that there could be anything else. There was nothing. He was a Prussian, as he liked to put it, and she was French, with all the diversity of their nationalities between them. He was the oppressor, the Occupier, and she the oppressed, the subjugated. By the very nature of this relationship between victor and vanquished, he had the upper hand, and given his disposition, Jürgen Schult could play her like a harp. She hated it and wished with great fervour that this war would end, that the conquerors be conquered, and their glory turned to dust. That wish lay in her heart, mostly just beneath the surface, a constant, burning desire that one day she'd be free and her country whole again.
She stood at the mantle piece and studied the two pictures. One of Célestine and one with Joseph holding a laughing, happy child. Joseph appeared happy, she thought, with none of the constant drawn looks that marred him in the two years before he was taken. He had been constantly worried, constantly on his guard. His worst fears materialised when the front door of their home in Paris was kicked down. They had no time to flee, no time to prepare, to say goodbye… nothing.
Even now she could hear Joseph's anguished directive, "Katrine, save yourself!" Célestine had stood next to him on the truck, screaming "Maman! Maman!". In those first months, after their fruitless search for Joseph and their daughter, she'd often wondered why he'd shouted that she save herself. Did he know in those moments he was never going to see her again? Did he know that he would surely die? That both he and Célestine would be lost to her forever?
She'd lashed out at Lucien Blériot, calling him Vichy filth before he'd struck her. Blériot was a Vichy sympathiser and collaborator, therefore scum, a turncoat, a traitor in the eyes of the Resistance. He had smarted from the moment Katrine had broken off her engagement to him when she fell in love with Joseph Blumenthal, a kind-hearted, no-nonsense doctor who just happened to be Jewish. Love and mutual trust were the defining factors that sealed their marriage and gave them a daughter who from the earliest showed extraordinary proficiency in playing the violin. Lucien Blériot had harboured a deep, constant dislike for the choice she had made in not just marrying another man, but a Jew at that.
Little Célestine became a casualty of the war, like so many thousands of children. After all attempts to search for husband and child through various official channels, their own indefatigable efforts led them eventually to a forest clearing where they discovered to their horror that many detainees, Joseph and Célestine included, were shot dead by German soldiers, the rest loaded on the cattle trucks. By that time, the bodies found there were already so badly decomposed that it was impossible to identify Joseph. They found the decomposed remains of a child. Célestine... Months later Lucien Blériot brought official confirmation that Joseph and Célestine were shot dead.
She had been demented, hardly noticing how quiet Lamine had become. Quiet, harbouring an inner rage the level of which even she, Katrine, had not suspected.
Sighing, Katrine touched the face of Célestine. She would have been nine years old in September. The child smiled at her with her bright, open face, shiny eyes, clear, healthy skin and dark auburn hair like her own. Célestine had been only seven then. Seven years old, shot dead in an isolated forest clearing near a railroad. Katrine felt something build inside her, a tide of grief that swelled and hurt her insides. She clutched her bosom and gave a cry of pain. Then with a sudden jerk she moved away from the mantelpiece and walked to the table where the old phonograph stood, fighting back the tears of a thousand aches she'd vowed never to shed.
Carefully she lifted the arm of the phonograph and settled it on the record. The strains of the music filled the room. Thin sounds of horns and trombones, moving counterpoint over the first few bars. The burn in her heart of moments before subsided as she gave herself over to the music that filled the room. Better, she thought, to drive memories of her husband and child out with force where images of smiling faces, of bright laughter and soft, tender murmurings of comfort couldn't hurt. One day, when all this was over, she would afford herself the luxury of crying for them.
Katrine gave a sigh of pleasure, then ran her fingers through her hair, shaking it loose. Only here, in her home, could she let her hair down, kick off her pumps, dig her hands into the pockets of her pants, sing her favourite "La vie en rose" and perhaps, think of tomorrow. Her mouth twisted into a smile. Tonight Solange had been on her mettle, finishing the evening with Edith Piaf's great song. Solange knew how she, Katrine, loved the song and most evenings, when she was in the mood for it, she would croon exactly like the "Little Sparrow" as she entertained the patrons.
She slid the tuxedo jacket off and dropped it on the couch, then jerked round when there was a sharp staccato-like knock on the door. Her heart hammered wildly for a few seconds. Steeling herself, Katrine walked to the front door, her hand trembling as she turned the knob. Not for Jürgen Schult the uncouth way of opening her door and stepping inside as if he owned her place. He didn't need to do that.
He stood on the threshold, still dressed in his uniform. He removed his cap and clasped it under his arm.
A perfect gentleman. Katrine had a moment to think of the irony of the situation. He was here to reaffirm his Franco-Prussian relations with her. Tonight he would be in her bed and he'd stay there till the early hours of the morning, when duty to Der Führer called him to the German Headquarters. But now, Jürgen Schult stood with a calm, wicked twist to his mouth as he spoke.
"Guten Abend, Katrin."
He always gave the Germanic inflection of her name. Short, staccato second syllable.
"Get out, Schult," Katrine commanded, then moved to put some distance between them, her back to him.
"Not when you're playing my favourite symphony. You chose well tonight, Liebchen. The First Symphony. Mahler will not be disappointed. Neither will I…"
Jürgen Schult's words drifted away on a hoarse note as he stepped inside. Katrine looked too beautiful for him to ignore her tonight. He hated it that she could, without trying, create instant chaos inside him. Perhaps it was good that she did not know this. She hated him, he knew, hated that only his position here in St. Clair could get her where he wanted her. All he had to do was put her against a wall for whatever subversive activities he could concoct against her, or have her indicted as a traitor to her government. It was so easy. It was too easy, he thought. Now, she could protest all she wanted to. It was Katrine du Pléssis's way of offering resistance, of at least saying that she did try to banish Jürgen Schult from her bed.
A moment only his gaze stole to the mantelpiece where the framed photographs stood of her dead husband and daughter. The way her shoulder stiffened when he touched Célestine's picture was the merest reminder that he had a conscience or that he should have one.
Jürgen Schult ignored the angry sheen of tears in her eyes as he murmured her name.
"Katrin…"
==/\/\==/\/\==/\/\==
19 July 1944
Three days later, Katrine assembled her team in the Coeur de Lion. Although it was near mid-day, the restaurant was closed for business. They'd met every day trying to get intelligence to Allied High Command but with little success. Today was a last ditch attempt before their efforts alerted German command, which had lately been quiet.
Lamine stood next to her behind the counter. The back of the mirror revealed a map which they were busy studying. Jürgen Schult was forgotten for the moment. He hadn't been to her apartment since that last time, nor had she seen him and Heinz Welthagen in the restaurant the past three days.
Lamine had assured her it wasn't something she should be overly concerned about. Still, the German garrison's leadership missing from the restaurant for days left her to ponder on whether they suspected something was afoot. By now they must have been apprised of the advances of the Allied forces across France. Something was definitely happening in the German camp. Whatever it was, it certainly was not the withdrawal of the garrison from St. Clair. Their foot soldiers were still visible everywhere in the streets of St. Clair.
Katrine gave an inward sigh. They needed support from the Allied forces as soon as possible. Tomorrow if possible! She'd read of the massacre on the 10th of June when six hundred and forty two civilians in the village of Oradour-sur-Glane were brutally murdered by the Germans. They'd suspected a Resistance cell leader was being protected there. They didn't spare the men, women and children. They didn't spare the buildings. The village had been completely destroyed.
France wept.
She dreaded the thought of the Germans locking all the women and children in Saint Agnes Cathedral and setting it alight, locking the men in barns and killing them with machine guns, the way it had happened in Oradour-sur-Glane. No, it couldn't happen in St. Clair.
"Katrine."
She glanced distractedly at Lamine then pulled her attention to the present.
"This information is forty eight hours old," she said. "We need new intelligence. Brigitte? How are you coming along with the weather report?"
"Reception is weak. We need to strengthen it. Get an oscillator."
"Which is where, exactly?"
"German Headquarters," replied Berry. "You know the way there - "
Brigitte ignored Berry's comment, focusing on the coded message.
"I got it," Brigitte exclaimed. "The decryption sequence reads 'every fifth letter, every third vowel.'"
Katrine and Brigitte quickly decrypted the message. Minutes later Katrine gave a soft gasp.
"A.H.C. - Allied High Command," she murmured, a surge of joy filling her. "They're sending a regiment to St. Clair. The United States Fifth Armoured Infantry. A full company. They want us to disable enemy communications..."
"Finally, help is on its way," said Lamine.
After a few exclamations of joy, Katrine raised her hand. Everyone looked expectantly at her.
"Yes!" a voice suddenly piped up, ignoring Katrine's command, "now we can chase those Allemands out of here. Better still, we line them all up in the town square and shoot them dead. Dead! Especially Schult and Welthagen. Then we can protect Katrine and Brigitte."
"I don't need protection," said Katrine with great conviction. "I can take care of myself."
She glared at Berry Beaumont who met her gaze with courage. The air was heavy with tension. Of course they knew what Schult did those nights he knocked on Katrine's door. Berry trained in the early hours of the morning, riding to the neighbouring towns. He must have seen Schult leaving her apartment.
"He is a snake, Katrine! And that - that other snake," he stammered, looking at Brigitte this time, "I do not like that batard Welthagen!"
He was rewarded with a sound smack across the face from Brigitte whose eyes flashed with indignation.
"Brigitte! For you alone I shall turn the other cheek and take a kick in the rear if only to remind you that that batard Welthagen is a filthy chien!"
"You just called him snake and now he's a dog!"
"He is all three!"
Brigitte lunged to strike Berry again while Lamine and Solange rolled their eyes.
"That's enough from you two!" barked Katrine. She was fast losing patience with Brigitte and Berry's ongoing fight. Berry loved Brigitte and Brigitte chose to ignore his devotion.
"He started it!"
"Children," Solange began, her voice tinged with hauteur. She was an important songstress and expected everyone to know that. "Enough!"
"Solange, you actually think we do not know what you do after hours behind Saint Agnes Cathedral? And with those sales Allemands?"
The next moment Berry stared down the barrel of the gun Katrine pulled from under the counter.
"Leave the war outside!" Katrine hissed. "If it weren't that you are a valuable member of my team, Berry Baumont, I'd shoot the snot from your nose."
"Excuse me," began Solange, who'd stepped forward to raise her hand against Berry, but was stopped by Brigitte this time.
"Back off, Solange," Brigitte said softly. "Katrine wouldn't hesitate to shoot you too."
"I only sing."
"Lamine..." Katrine said as she turned to look at him. Lamine knew what he had to do. Most of the time they were a solid team, but bickering and animosity were the enemies of unity. They could not afford discord of any kind, not when she knew there'd be trouble if Jürgen and his cohorts sensed what they were up to.
Lamine ushered Solange and Brigitte out of the Coeur de Lion. He would be apprising them of their mission. They would disable the Germans' radio communications. Brigitte was no longer a favourite of Welthagen who'd told her in no uncertain terms that she was just good meat and nothing else. She hated him enough to blow him up. With Lamine and Solange they formed a formidable trio pulling off a difficult job. Katrine had faith in them. While they fought among themselves one moment, the next they were a great team.
"And what about me?" asked a perplexed Berry Beaumont.
"I have a job for you," she said, a smile transforming her face.
When Katrine smiled at him, he could never help but smile in return. If it weren't that he loved Brigitte with all his heart and more, he would have fallen for the equally petite and fiery Katrine. Still, she bowled him over every time she looked at him with those blue-grey eyes that sometimes, just sometimes, had a hint of sadness in them.
The German Headquarters in St. Clair was situated on the corner of Rue Viete and Rue Charpentier, with its entrance in Rue Charpentier. A small alleyway, Ruelle Corbeau, flanked the right side of the building. At 0300 the area was completely dark. No lights shone from any of the windows, except a very weak illumination from a room on the top floor. A silhouette against the light of that window would have indicated someone in the room, perhaps the commander of the garrison or one of his subordinates. St. Clair lay huddled in sleep.
Two figures approached the alley silently, one from the Rue Viete end. At the other end, another figure waited. The first person wore pumps, her shapely body accentuated by the lamé gown she wore. Her hair spun in long curls bouncing about her shoulders. Across the way in Rue Viete, inside a house, a figure stood by a window, the room lit by a candle as if she was holding a vigil in the dark. Perhaps the small light was a signal. Still, she remained motionless, although her eyes darted, checking for any movement up or down Rue Viete or particularly, Headquarters.
Brigitte Beaumont waited for Solange to disappear into Ruelle Corbeau. She knew Lamine was waiting at the Rue Evremonde entrance, making himself appear invisible. There was only one guard on duty. Their plan had to succeed. A communications cable was piggybacked on to the main electrical cable that ran about half a foot beneath the surface of the alley to the nearest pylon. If they could disable that, they'd at least be buying some time. Radio communications would be delayed a minimum of several hours. Since a United States regiment was on its way, Katrine was dealing in her own unique way of getting vital intelligence to them without using radio equipment and weather reports to decrypt messages..
Brigitte caressed her stomach, the first movement she'd made since she took up position in front of the window. She had three months to go before the birth of her child. Her sojourns with Heinz Welthagen inside Headquarters had given her a clear idea of the layout of the place, when she had managed to steal a plan of the building. In his inebriated moments, Heinz had let slip the vital information which was helping them now. She hated Welthagen as much as she hated Schult. She was not proud of what had happened to her but her unborn child was not going to suffer. Her child was French, and that was that. She couldn't change anything now, although Berry continued to make her life difficult by reminding her what a dog Welthagen was. She'd of course have to kill Berry too for making her life difficult by reminding her what a dog Welthagen was.
She loved Berry. Only, she didn't want him to know.
Sighing, she continued looking up and down Rue Viete for any suspicious movement.
At the entrance to the alley, Solange rose to her full height as she shook her hair It fell about her face, enhancing her rouged lips and her eyebrows which arched delicately. Even in the dark, the lone German sentry drew in his breath sharply.
He knew her. She knew him for she smiled deliciously at him. Did he not help her lift her skirts behind the Saint Agnes Cathedral two nights in a row? And other nights before that?.
"Bonjour, Korporal..."
"Solange," he said, smiling as she sidled up to him. He squirmed and almost dropped his rifle. Torn between duty and lust, that little war raged only for a second or two before he moved in to kiss her.
"What brings you here at this hour?" he asked as the brief kiss ended.
She touched his chest, sliding her hand lower and lower down his body.
"Something only you can give me. Kiss me again..."
He leaned in to comply. The next moment Lamine grabbed him from behind, his arm a vise as he closed his hand around the corporal's mouth.
"Surprise," Solange whispered, seeing his eyes widen in shock.
The next moment, Lamine twisted his head deftly using his free hand. A soft crack was all that was heard. The soldier slumped to the ground. A few shudders and he became still.
From his ruck sack, Lamine removed a small garden shovel. Solange bent down with him.
"We must be quick," she said as she used her hands to help dig away the soil. When they hit something hard, Lamine sat up on his haunches. From his bag he pulled a pair of cutters and proceeded to cut the cable. A soft snap and it was done.
Very quickly they filled the hole again, pressing the soil firmly back in place.
"We have now hindered any future action in their communication with their High Command," whispered Lamine. "You have done well, Solange."
Although it was so dark, Solange de Neuf looked deeply into his eyes. She wanted to weep but dared not. How could anyone understand that her visits behind the cathedral were to gather intelligence? She'd given Katrine vital information about the munitions depot, what kind of arms they stored there, as well as the number of German soldiers in St. Clair. Her body was a sacrifice.
"You understand, Lamine," she stated simply.
"After tomorrow we shall talk again." There was confidence in his voice. He had been in awe of her beauty, struck by her intelligence, and quite unable to stop his insides from boiling whenever she sang.
"After tomorrow?" she asked.
"When the Americans arrive and help us rout these...vermine."
She touched his cheek gently. "We will talk."
So they proceeded to lift the dead German to a sitting position and propped him up against the wall so that it looked like he was sleeping on duty. That would give them extra time.
They sneaked out of the alley into Rue Evremonde and walked towards the end of the row of buildings until they turned into Rue Phillippe, going in a roundabout way back to the building where Brigitte was waiting for them.
Now they could at least sleep for an hour or two before dawn when they would meet with Katrine again.
Their job for the night was done.
Roadblock outside St. Clair - July 20 1944
The next morning Berry Beaumont mounted his bike, a Gilles Rienne five gear model he'd used to train over long distances in the southern French countryside. He lived in the same building as Brigitte, a block from the Coeur de Lion. As he passed the restaurant, he waved to Katrine who stood by the window waving back. He thought he heard her mouth Vive la France!. So what if she did. He always imagined that was what everyone cried these days. Victory was like an electric current flowing through them, lighting up every part of their bodies, especially their eyes.
Victory was near. He could taste it.
He rode along the elegant, lazy curve of the main road, past the library and the wash-house on his left, and on his right the apartment buildings. Directly ahead of him was the stone fountain of the town square, and the statue of a lion in full pouncing stance. Then he passed the Cathedral of Saint Agnes where the road followed straight for a mile until he reached the outskirts of town. He grinned. One dark morning he'd spotted Solange in the grounds of the cathedral pulling up her skirts for an Allemande. Perhaps, he realised with hindsight, she was gathering intelligence.
He waved to the townsfolk already up and about, smelling the freshly baked bread all the way from Gilbert's bakery in Rue Fontaine. He wanted to scream at them not to worry, that help was on its way, that soon St. Clair would be delivered from the evil Herr Kommandant Schult and all his cohorts, especially that batard Welthagen.
But he could not. He was dressed like he was riding in the Tour de France, only there was no Tour except the poor relation the Vichy government called France Road Cycle Tour. He wouldn't want to wake up the sleeping Germans with screams of freedom and Vive la France. When he'd returned that year from the Olympics, Brigitte ran all over St. Clair with his gold medal hanging round her neck, telling everyone that her cousin Berry would win the Tour de France soon. He'd wait until the Germans were out of St. Clair permanently before riding the greatest cycle race on Earth. Damned Allemands!
It was going to be another hot summer's day. He had taken Grand-mère's scarf, knotted each corner and used it as a cap. Grand-mère would not miss any of her scarfs, since he and Brigitte always helped themselves to one whenever they had gone out riding in the countryside as children. When they returned late in the evening, she'd just cluck with annoyance, pull their ears and order them to go to bed without supper.
Berry saw the roadblock from a distance, his heart beating furiously as he slowly approached it. They always stopped him, confiscating anything he carried in his rucksack, whether he was leaving town or returning. He was ready for them, although they always made him a little nervous with their shouting and crude name calling.
Today he carried nothing, thank heaven. The two pockets in his cycling shirt were empty. He slowed down as he approached them.
"Guten Morgen!" he shouted cheerfully at the bleary-eyed Germans who manned the roadblock. In the morning there were usually only two or three at the most. It was the evenings when there were about five or six of them.
They greeted him brusquely, their faces unfriendly. They were waiting to be relieved by the next sentries. He and Katrine had planned it that he would reach the checkpoint just before the changeover.
"Halt!" cried the German on the left.
Berry stopped and got off, standing next to the bike. They searched him, passing disinterested hands over his torso and lower body. Nothing on his person - not in his racing shirt's pocket, not under Grand-mère's hat, not inside his mouth. They lifted his shirt high over his torso to check for markings. They walked round the bike. The last time they'd taken his water bottle and emptied it, peering inside to see if there was anything like codes sticking to the bottom.
Then they removed the rubber from the handlebars and poked in there, throwing the covers on the ground when they found nothing. The second, less bleary looking German dislodged the bicycle pump from its bracket and began pumping, thinking he might hit an obstacle hidden inside. Nothing. They studied the rubber tyres looking for anything scratched on them, like codes. Nothing.
"Zieh deine Schuhe aus!"
So he kicked off both shoes and they looked under his feet, inside the shoes, lifted the soles and check for anything there. Nothing.
"Sie können jetzt gehen!"
"Thank you, thank you! I'll go now!" he said effusively as he put on his shoes and picked up the rubbers of his handlebars. They'd thrown out only half of the water from his water bottle this time. When he'd finished, he waited for the next salvo.
"Wo gehst du hin?"
"I am on my training run for the France Cycle Tour. It's long distances, see? I won gold for France in the Olympics in '36. I plan on winning this year, messieurs!"
"Be on your way, then, infidel!"
When he was about ten yards away, he muttered under his breath "stupide!"
Berry was glad to get away from them. They always gave everyone a hard time coming through the check point. He was about two miles away when he swerved onto a secondary dirt road and rode hard, praying that he wouldn't get a puncture.
He was flying through the countryside, mile after mile of vineyards and small villages until at last he hit the tarred road that gave his cycle some relief. Another thirty miles. He was losing time, judging by the height of the sun in the sky. He hadn't dared wear his watch. Last time they'd opened it to look for messages. Why couldn't they just give up?
He kept to the camber of the road, since there were no other vehicles for miles ahead of him. He was alone on the road; for once when he looked behind him, it was clear.
His thoughts strayed to Brigitte, who was pregnant with a batard's child. That chien had denied the child was his. That made Brigitte mad, but she was also disillusioned.
"Now, Brigitte," he muttered to himself, "you might finally look upon your cousin who has loved you since you wore white ankle socks."
He pedalled faster just imagining Brigitte in white ankle socks.
"If you will ever let me, Brigitte, your child will be my child! I love you! I love your unborn child already! We'll call him Charles, after General de Gaulle!"
He screamed the last words so that they echoed in the open countryside.
"I am going mad with love. Mon Dieu! Brigitte! I do all this for you. No, for you and all of France!" Berry released the handlebars and threw his arms up like a champion winning the yellow jersey. "Vive la France! Vive la France!"
For several yards he rode on the camber with his hands in the air. Only when he settled both hands on the handlebars again, he saw something like a mirage in the distance. It was moving in his direction.
Then Bertrand Beaumont, in love with cousin Brigitte since they rode their first bicycles into a ditch on the dirt road between St. Clair and Avignon, knew he was on the right road at the right time.
He pedalled faster and faster towards the mirage. As the convoy came into view, an American flag flapped lazily on the leading vehicle.
END CHAPTER SEVEN