CHAPTER NINE
St. Clair : Aftermath - July 1944
Captain Charles Miller stood, hands on his hips, in the main office of what had been the German Headquarters, now the temporary command centre of the American contingent. They'd be here at least another week, tying up loose ends, compiling reports of events, handing out commendations, mopping up operations and taking some much needed rest and relaxation.
Two privates were taking down the German flags that hung from the walls. When Miller had entered the building for the first time late last night, he'd been appalled at the proliferation of flags and swastika symbols everywhere.
Just above the fireplace was an oil painting, a still life depicting oranges. It stirred something in him, deep and mysterious. He did not know much about art, but he felt somehow connected in a way he found unable to explain. It drew him inexorably to it, causing him to wonder about the association.
It probably belonged to Jürgen Schult, the Kommandant he'd shot dead yesterday. But then, how did Schult acquire this painting? It was common knowledge among the American and British military that the Germans confiscated art works from their Jewish owners who'd been displaced and sent to concentration camps. He would have to ask Katrine about it sometime. Surely this painting had an original owner other than the artist himself.
"All done, sir," said Private Gordon, bunching the flags in his arms. "What shall we do with them?"
The soldier looked expectantly at him.
The red flags bore the swastika which flowered like red poppies all over Germany and its occupied territories. What madman, Captain Miller decided, could hold the world ransom like that? What dictator could claim a Reich that had to last a thousand years but left death and destruction in its wake?
Charles had seen a hundred thousand spectators that day in the Olympic Stadium in Berlin, paying homage to der Führer as if he, like a modern messiah, had come to deliver Germany from all it deemed imperfect, undesirable, unworthy and unacceptable. Empires rose and fell and Charles had no doubt that the Third Reich would, like its predecessors in history, also fall. In the modern day, claiming to extend the Reich by sheer force of will and rule it for a thousand years could no longer be viewed as defensible. Europe and Southeast Asia were plunged in darkness. War was ugly; war was dirty. While a Geneva Convention existed that determined the fate of prisoners, the rules of engagement were ignored by the Axis Powers.
Men and women such as he had encountered since arriving in France, fought for freedom and refused to accept that the atrocities committed by the enemy in the name of the Reich, in the name of a herrenvolk, could ever continue. Hitler's supposed Reich was not an empire of enlightenment, but truly, Miller thought, a thousand years of darkness.
How could one man who ordered the wilful destruction of lands and the shameful subjugation of its peoples with extreme atrocity not be called to justice? A flag that carried a symbol of the swastika was an evil embodiment of that man.
"Captain?"
As if Captain Miller awoke from a dark dream, the face of Private Gordon came into focus, the red flags dripping like blood over his arms.
"Burn them all."
Once he sat down behind the desk, he leaned back, allowing his thoughts to stray to the events of the previous day. He thought of Katrine. He'd shot Jürgen Schult from two hundred paces clean through the head. It had looked like the Kommandant's head exploded before both of them went down.
He'd been confident that Katrine's injuries were only superficial. It said a lot for Schult that he didn't want to kill Katrine, trying to gain a truce most likely by threatening to kill her. By the time they reached the square, Katrine was slowly regaining consciousness. He realised that the shock of an exploding head next to her was too much.
He'd ignored the litter bearers as he'd lifted her in his arms and carried her to the medical tents set up on the perimeter of the town south of the square. She'd looked at him when she came to and called his name.
"Charles..."
The French inflection, the -s- silent. It sounded beautiful as his name fell from her lips. A warmth had spread through him. Then she closed her eyes again and buried her head against his chest.
He felt something breaking in him, something he didn't want to feel.
"Treat this woman," he told the field medics when he reached the hospital tent.
"Yes, Captain!"
Katrine had stirred awake, her hand releasing his reluctantly when he laid her down on the cot. She was covered with blood that had spattered from the dead Schult. Her blue-grey eyes were curious despite the pain that flashed in them.
"Capitaine..."
He stiffened.
"Yes?"
"You said you wanted to talk to me on another matter," she'd said, already drowsy as the injection the field nurse administered began taking effect.
"I'll be around, Katrine. It can wait. Just get better, okay?"
"Tomorrow, then," she said, and Charles thought he heard a hint of command in her voice.
He'd held her hand until she drifted into slumber. She was in good hands. His field medics knew their work. He'd noticed a few German soldiers being treated by his men. Later they'd be transported to another town as prisoners of war.
He'd reminded himself that he would ask Katrine whether Frenchwomen were always as gung-ho as some of the American women he'd encountered. They, he decided, were pro-active women who would stand equal to any man. He didn't mind that. Not if that woman happened to be Katrine du Pléssis.
She did something to him, something that excited him but also filled him with anxiety. He'd lost Lucy to his brother. He was not going to get burned a second time; he would not give his heart again only to have it ripped from his chest and trampled on. Lucy fell out of love with him when he still believed in love. He'd been popular in high school, never short of the attention of girls, until Lucy came along. She had given him purpose, stability, even calmness. He had gone a little mad when he discovered she married his brother.
Since then he had turned cold inside.
Now Katrine. For the first time something stirred deep within him from the first moment he laid eyes on her. But he could not go through a desertion again. Katrine was beautiful, exquisite and dangerous to his equilibrium. He'd apprise her of his personal mission regarding the Harvard scientists, ask where her child and husband were, write home to his brother and that was that, as his father used to say.
"And that's that!"
Berry Beaumont woke up the morning after the big fight, memories of flying bullets, snipers, Germans dying and Brigitte ordering him to kiss her flooding him.
Sighing, he lay back against the pillows, hands behind his head and closed his eyes. He felt on top of the world today. Brigitte told him to kiss her! No, she ordered him to kiss her! Ever since he was a boy barely out of his teens he had dreamed of just such a day. They had kissed before, but those were cousinly kisses. They could never be counted. Why, there was never any indication that it could be more than cousinly. Brigitte had been so inflexible all those years, telling him she was not interested in a cousin who had shared a bath tub with her.
"We are family, and we know each other too well," she'd always stated, lifting that cheeky chin of hers in an act of snootiness.
"But, Brigitte, where is it said that cousins cannot - "
"Stop right there, Bertrand Beaumont. I am not interested! When are you ever going to understand?"
But he had never given up on Brigitte. Never. His love for her was like a river that flowed strongly since the beginning of time, like the river Seine. He could not think of a single moment in his entire life that he had not loved Brigitte. When he was six years old and Brigitte was four, he told her he was going to marry her one day. She had lifted that same chin so tartly and replied, "You do not have a pénis!" He had looked down, for they were standing in a large bath tub while Grand-mère scrubbed their ears.
"Grand-mère!" he'd cried that day because even at four years old, Brigitte was a little sassy. When he thought about it, Brigitte was never an ingénue.
Grand-mère had slapped Brigitte's bottom for being so forward to talk about her cousin's pénis after which she started wailing and told Grand-mère while pointing a soapy finger in his face, "He told me about his little pénis!" Then Grand-mère walloped his bottom. He and Brigitte bawled all the time Grand-mère scrubbed their ears.
Yes, he had wanted to marry Brigitte ever since that day, and ever since that day he never let her forget, always telling her about how he loved her. She had had her share of boyfriends and he had especially hated that foreigner Robert Davis, afraid that Davis with his blonde hair and blue eyes that stood out like a beacon in St. Clair, would take his girl and fly with her to America. He had been even more afraid because he was in Berlin at the time riding France to gold in the team event.
When he'd returned home to St. Clair on crutches, Davis was gone and Brigitte looked sad for a very long time. His own heart wanted to break because she was so heartbroken. But Brigitte rallied. And he rallied. Then that German Welthagen caught Brigitte's eye and made her pregnant.
Berry gave another long drawn out sigh. He had been shocked when Welthagen had dragged her by her hair to the middle of the square and threatened to shoot her. Today he was going to ask his new friend Rheddam Compton just how they could shoot Welthagen dead at such a great distance. That German's head seemed to fly away from his neck. He had rushed to Brigitte who was lying on the ground, her face and clothes spattered with sang Allemand.
How could he not help berating her for being so careless? Katrine didn't want her to join in the big fight, but in typical Brigitte stubbornness she had insisted. Now she had the blood of Welthagen all over her face and clothes.
"Shut up, Berry and kiss me!"
He had been too stunned to react immediately, thinking of all the times she had brushed him off.
"Brigitte?"
Then she'd pulled his head closer and pressed her lips against his. He felt like drowning and he liked that sensation! He never wanted to come up for air again. He hardly noticed that the firing had stopped or that Welthagen and Schult lay on the ground with their heads split open.
"Ah, Brigitte! Ah, Brigitte!" he cried when he'd managed to come up for air.
He noticed only then that Captain Miller had lifted Katrine in his arms. He copied the good captain by lifting Brigitte in his arms too and carried her all the way to their apartment building. They had no mothers and their fathers who were brothers worked in labour camps in Germany.
He wanted to put Brigitte down gently in her lounge, but Brigitte, who had buried her face against his shoulder, was reluctant to let him go.
"Ah, mon tendre amour, je dois te laisser partir, but I will not relinquish my touch!" he promised.
So, while he still kept contact with her, he laid her down, and then sat down beside her and kept holding her hand. She had looked deeply into his eyes.
Berry thought how that look was so different from all the other times Brigitte had looked at him. She could shoot angry sparks at him, she could look agitated, even flinty. Now her eyes were soft, but also he had sensed she was a little ashamed. She was courageous, though, and was waiting to hear all his ranting against foreigners and the man who had made her pregnant. Brigitte had made a lot of sacrifices and for a while at least, she was attracted to Heinz Welthagen.
"You want me to say I hate what happened to you, but I cannot. You want me to say I hate Robert Davis and I hate Heinz Welthagen. You want me to rub your nose in it, but I cannot. I can never do that! My love is greater than my hatred and has consumed all of it!"
"You mean that, Berry?"
"With all my heart!" he'd cried out passionately.
"And - and the child?" Her hand had caressed her swollen belly. She was carrying a German's child, a German Brigitte had come to hate and who was dead.
"What is yours is also mine. I have always thought of our unborn child to be of us. How can I not love your child if I love its mother beyond my own life, Brigitte? Tell me how!"
He had pleaded and Brigitte had burst into tears. He could swear by all the heavens that he had never seen Brigitte cry like she had last night. She had clung to him and all the while he allowed his love to sob her heart out against him, he wept with her.
When the weeping stopped eventually, Brigitte sat back, but she still held his hand. She smiled through the tears.
"Why have you been so patient with me, Berry?"
"Do you remember when I was riding for France in Berlin and I had injured my leg? I worried every day I was away that you would go to America and I would never see you again."
"When Bobby left, I knew that it was over, the beginning of the end. Then, Welthagen... forgive me, Berry."
Brigitte's eyes had filled with tears again. He had waited patiently while she dried her tears.
"When you love a cousin like Brigitte Beaumont," he said at last, "you learn to be patient."
And for that, Brigitte thumped his arm, making him cry out out in surprise. Then they'd both been so shocked that they burst out laughing so hard that they cried again.
Now Berry lay thinking about last night, and thinking that today would beckon a bright new future. Him, Brigitte and a baby.
Today he was going to ask her to marry him.
"But Madame, you are not well," the army medic told Katrine the following morning.
She gave him a glare and bit out, "If I can hobble on this leg and I have my faculties about me, then I am mobile."
"I have met someone just like you," he said as he allowed her up and gave her another painkiller.
"Yes? Do I know such a person?"
"Indeed you do, Mme Du Pléssis. His name is Captain Charles Anson Miller."
So he has a middle name...Anson.
Katrine smiled, then softened. "Please, I have so many things to tie up. I intended opening Le Coeur de Lion tonight for business again. I will heal meanwhile. Ne vous inquiétez pas autant!"
"Fine, I shall not worry. You are discharged then," he said, smiling.
"Thank you," she said, touching his arm.
Katrine left the tent and began walking towards her home. On the way she saw American soldiers still in the process of mopping up. Some German soldiers who had been injured were treated by the Americans. They probably had structures in place as to what would happen to the prisoners of war.
The dead?
When she'd feared for her life, Schult had held tightly on to her. Next moment he was dead, killed by a sniper. After that it became quiet around her. She must have fainted, for the next thing she knew was being lifted by Captain Miller and carried to the medical tents.
The feeling of floating was not brought on by the fainting spell or the excruciating pain in her leg and shoulder. She was in the arms of a man and it was not Schult, the last man who had held her during their nights of passion. She had not loved Schult, never loved anyone since Joseph died. Schult held her hostage and she had to comply, had no way of fighting him those nights he slept in her bed. Whatever his feelings were concerned her no more. She was glad, very glad the German Kommandant was out of her life forever.
But being held so closely by Charles Anson Miller...
When last had she felt like her world was turning upside down again? When last did she feel she wanted to remain in someone's close embrace and not have to think of all her tribulations? Not have to think of her pain, her loss, even her anger? She had closed her eyes and it seemed to her that her pain was forgotten. She was so aware of Miller, his chest rock hard. "Lean on me," were words she had last heard when Joseph spoke them. Miller said not a single word but his very bearing, the way he carried her told her that she could lean on him.
Last night in the tent he had placed her on a cot and stayed with her until she had been cleaned up and treated. He held her hand and she had not minded it one single bit. Once when she opened her eyes it was to see him looking worried.
"These are only flesh wounds, Captain Miller," the medic said.
"Take good care of her," Miller had answered. Katrine thought his voice sounded menacing.
"Do not worry, Captain. Mme du Pléssis is in good hands."
Charles Miller had given a tight smile, still not letting go of her hand. Later she had fallen asleep, unable to keep awake.
Now as she walked home, she wondered how long Captain Miller had stayed with her. He probably waited until she had fallen asleep, she thought wryly. And why not? He was in charge of the American units here with a lot of paperwork to be done. Where had he gone? Where did the soldiers sleep? There were no signs around her that they slept in the vacant buildings. Probably in tents. They certainly knew what they were doing!
Sighing, she opened her front door and headed straight for the bathroom to freshen up. She wanted to meet with Captain Miller again about how long they'd be staying in St. Clair. She hoped long enough that she could entertain the troops in the Coeur de Lion.
She stared at her reflection in the mirror. She saw the scene of yesterday so clearly.
Schult's gun pressed painfully against her temple. In a second or two she would be dead. Schult screamed that the soldiers should drop their weapons. Next moment his head burst open, the body sinking to the ground, pulling her down with him. Blood everywhere. Schult was dead.
Schult is gone. Schult is dead. No more need I submit my body to him. I am free, free, free!
And so, above the feeling of complete wonderment that Charles Anson Miller could have such a devastating effect on her came the feeling of being free from Jürgen Schult. She trembled with the aftershock of her realisation that Schult was no more.
Her heart sang a new song, the lyrics of which were still unknown to her, a melody that would one day become her song.
Katrine put on a new dress, a blue one that flared about her calves, that hugged her bosom and one that made her feel woman. Then she sat down at her table in the kitchen and poured herself a glass of Chateau Languedoc, the only bottle she had kept on the day Joseph and Célestine had been taken from her.
Raising her glass, she toasted to all who had sacrificed in the name of the freedom of France.
"To France. To you, Captain Miller..."
She was still tired from her ordeal and decided afterwards to lie down and take a nap. Her leg and shoulder felt better already. She'd limp for a few days and that would be all. Tonight her team would be with her in the Coeur de Lion when she'd be completely refreshed.
At around midday there was a knock on her door. She blinked several times when she realised she'd slept longer than she had intended. Smoothing down her dress and slipping on her pumps in one movement, she made her way to the front door. She smoothed back her hair, smiling when she opened the door.
"Capitaine - "
Her smile died when she saw three men standing there. She'd seen them in the Coeur de Lion a few times. At other times lazing and lurking around the town. She remembered trying to recruit them into the resistance. They were not smiling. Katrine frowned.
"No, it is not Capitaine Miller, Katrine."
"Is there anything I can help you with?" she asked, becoming increasingly anxious.
Then the tallest of them - she recognised him as Gilles Rimbaud - spoke, his voice dripping with sarcasm and anger.
"You are a putain who slept with the enemy, Katrine. You are nothing but a whore! Come with us!"
Before she could respond, two of them grabbed her arms and marched her to the town square. Too surprised to offer any resistance, she walked with them. She saw a number of women there, Brigitte and Solange among them.
"Putes!" the men shouted.
Then Gilles Rimbaud stepped forward, holding a barber's clippers in his hand. There was a rumbling in the crowd, and the rumbling whipped the men into action.
"There is only one thing we do with women who slept with Germans!"
At his desk Charles Miller was busy with reports of the past day's events. He was in a hurry to finish up, planning to meet with Katrine later and talk about his personal mission. She spoke very fluent English so it was easy to converse with her in his language. She'd given him as good as any other person during their first meeting.
He noticed that she mentioned nothing about a husband and daughter. Where were they, he wondered? Were they in a safe place after all? Perhaps Switzerland? He was very curious about their whereabouts. He could, when reading about them in his brother's letter, only assume that her husband and daughter were Jewish.
Katrine was the only one who knew. He hoped she would be amenable and tell him about them. The Harvard scientists were extremely concerned ever since she had written them about finding a temporary home for her daughter. How old was the child then? he wondered. And why did she change her mind?
He knew very little about Katrine except that she was one mighty strong leader, one with strength of will. Yet he was drawn to her, an attraction he didn't want to acknowledge. He feared losing his heart again and that wouldn't do. At all!
His company had had a successful campaign in St. Clair. They suffered no casualties, and only a few of the locals had minor injuries. They had all been treated by his own men. No doubt the hospital in St. Clair would continue treatment once their forces left the town. He had instructed his men, though, to be on constant alert as they prepared for surprise attacks. They knew their job and they'd be out walking the streets monitoring the safety and security of the townsfolk. Not many buildings were destroyed and he was glad the Saint Agnes Cathedral had not beenshelled.
His aide was sitting rifling through papers the Germans left in the offices. However, he had no one in his company who knew enough German to read them. They did get a list of names of the German soldiers who served in St. Clair because Jürgen Schult's name was at the top followed by that of Oberleutnant Heinz Welthagen.
"Keep that," he told Private Porterfield.
"Why, Captain? Couldn't we just burn all the documents?"
"Do you have a mother, Porterfield?"
"Yes, sir. And a sister and brother still in junior high."
"You know we keep the dog tags of all our soldiers who died. I've instructed some soldiers to remove the identification tags of the German soldiers."
"I...see," said Porterfield.
"What do you see? If you died on the battlefield so far from home, Headquarters would need to inform your next of kin. We accord the same to these poor German foot soldiers who died."
"Thank you, Captain. I learn more and more each day."
"Good. Now - "
They heard two shots ring out outside. Miller glanced up sharply then frowned. His men were in control, but those were not rifle shots. Pistols more likely.
Right at that instant there was a loud knock on the door. Next moment Rheddam Compton burst through. His face looked flushed, his hair even spikier than usual.
"Compton! What the hell - ?"
"You have to come quickly, Captain! Frenchmen in the square. They just shot dead two of their own. There are women too. I think - I think - "
"Quick," he ordered Porterfield, "grab your rifle. Alert the rest to move to the square, Compton. I think I know what's happening."
They rushed downstairs and were out in record time. Miller, Compton and Porterfield ran all the way to the square already filled with an angry mob. Charlie noticed two men lying on the ground near the fountain. They were shot in the head. A woman wailed loudly.
Charlie's mind was in a whirl as he turned his gaze from the two dead men to the women who were brought to the square, too scared to move after the two men had been shot. Several men stood in front of them, at least three of them with barber's clippers in their hands.
"Let them go, Gilles Rimbaud!" one of the bystanders shouted.
"These women," the man called Gilles, cried out, "were collaborators. They slept with Germans! We shake off these shackles of shame they brought upon us!" Then he pointed to Brigitte. "Look at her! She is carrying a child fathered by a German. They must all pay for their deeds!"
By the time Gilles had spoken, Captain Charles Miller was already enraged. It was an anger that blinded him, and for a moment when he closed his eyes, he experienced darks spots and white flashes. His fists trembled; he wanted to kill Rimbaud with his bare hands, but Miller remained acutely aware that his men were already primed to shoot if necessary. Some of the women's eyes were downcast, others like Brigitte and Katrine were bold, yet tinged with fear.
One man grabbed a woman by her hair and pushed her forcibly down on a stool. Tears were streaming down her cheeks. Someone shouted "She must be punished! Whore!"
Charlie rushed forward, using his rifle like a baseball bat and swung at the Frenchman's legs, literally knocking him off his feet. Next moment Longman - or was it Linklater? - pressed a heavy boot down on the man's chest. "Stay!" he ordered, at the same time confiscating the offending clippers.
Meanwhile the soldiers screamed at the crowd to retreat. They beat back the men carrying clippers, using the butts of their rifles to keep them at bay. He heard Longman say, "Just try, I'll beat the snot out of you!"
Then Miller, the blinding rage lifting a little, yelled, "What the hell do you think you are doing to these poor women?"
"These women slept with Germans," one man shouted. "Shaving off their hair is their punishment!"
For which Charlie hit him with the butt of his rifle so hard he flew back several yards and landed in the fountain. Charlie heard a snicker from the crowd. He turned to look at the women. They looked afraid. Brigitte had tears in her eyes. What did it matter to these people that Brigitte, Solange and Katrine fought for the liberation of the town? All they saw were women who betrayed them. Katrine looked beautiful and resolute. He noticed that she stood at an awkward angle. She was in pain, he knew. He felt like gagging just at the thought of rough, uncouth hands shaving off their beautiful hair as an act of retribution.
Fury and a sudden churning in his stomach made him turn to Gilles Rimbaud who seemed to stand his ground against Miller. He pointed his rifle at the Frenchman, dark eyes flashing dangerously.
"I will shoot you first before I see you take one single hair off these women's heads!"
"This is not your business, Capitaine!" Rimbaud shouted.
That angered Charlie even more as he pressed the muzzle into Rimbaud's neck.
"Stand back, or I will shoot you!"
By that time, Miller noticed that Lamine, Linklater, Davis and Berry Beaumont and a few of his men formed a human barrier around the women. Others pushed the crowds back, telling them to go home.
Rimbaud reluctantly moved back but only about a yard or two. It was not enough for Charles and he pressed him back further so that his retreat was stopped by the support wall of the fountain.
"Longman!"
"Yes, Captain?"
"You can let go that slimy piece of horse mature!"
Longman reluctantly lifted his boot off the Frenchman's chest. He could have resisted the weight of Longman's boot had it not been for the muzzle of his rifle being practically stuck into his mouth.
"They are cowards, Captain!" Longman shouted, his voice fired with outrage. Then, as the Frenchman got to his feet, he shrunk back as Longman lunged for him. The other men also jumped back.
"You think," Longman began, "this is the middle ages! You think you can take the law into your own hands? By what law do you take it upon yourself to shave these women's heads and to execute those poor men? What law? Tell me!" he shouted. "These women do not deserve this inhumane, humiliating treatment! They are your daughters, your mothers, your wives, for the love of God, and you can stand by and watch these butchers treat them like sheep!"
Longman's eyes were red with the burn of tears. He didn't care that many of them didn't understand English, because the tone of his impassioned tirade was enough to make them understand his intent and his outrage. They were left in no doubt as to what he meant.
When one of them had the temerity to point to Brigitte, Berry Beaumont let fly with a hard punch to his jaw.
"You will not touch Brigitte, you miserable specimen of a rat! You will not touch a hair on her head! She is to be my wife and this baby is ours! You hear me, you creepy rat! She has fought fearlessly for the Resistance and placed herself in danger, right here in the square! She would give her life for a free France just as many of you dreamed but were afraid to embrace! And you dare stand there and tell me she is a collaborator! Go home, all of you! St. Clair will not do what others have done in other towns! It is shameful! You ought to feel the shame in your hearts!"
Berry was out of breath when he finished. The crowd began moving very slowly, but those men with the clippers still looked confrontational. Miller released Rimbaud, then stepped back to the women, keeping his rifle pointed at the men, especially Rimbaud. It was an interesting conversation he'd had early this morning with Lamine Bhoutayeb...
Miller turned to look briefly at Katrine. She was still nursing her left thigh, but looked stronger. The fear had left her. He knew that she must have slept with Schult. What choice would she have had? Schult could have had her executed for subversion at any time according to his own whim. Like many of the Germans in high positions, Schult exercised his authority to coerce her to become his lover. He'd heard stories of how Germans had engaged in prostitution rings in some of the big towns already liberated by the Allied Forces.
When Rimbaud lunged forward again, Miller was ready for him.
"Don't you dare," Miller threatened. "Davis!"
"Yes, Captain!"
"Did you not assign some of our men to guard the perimeter of the cathedral and the school building?"
"Yes, Captain. Thirty men in all covering the church and school and some inside the buildings."
Miller took Katrine's hand and drew her towards him so that they faced those people still hanging around. He pointed to Gilles Rimbaud.
"Lieutenant Davis, did this man, Gilles Rimbaud, enter the cathedral yesterday when the residents were asked to go there for their safety?"
"I recognise that man, Captain. He was one of the first to enter the cathedral." Davis sounded disgusted when he spoke. He stepped closer to Rimbaud, threatening to punch him, then drew back reluctantly.
"Listen, all of you!" Miller shouted, pulling Gilles by his shirt collar so that the Frenchman also faced the people. "Yesterday," Miller continued, "Lamine Bhoutayeb and Katrine risked their lives to save one little boy who was trapped in the crossfire because he was not quick enough to run to the cathedral! Do you know who the boy was whose life Lamine and Katrine saved? Well, do you?"
When some in the crowd shook their heads, Charlie gave a cluck of annoyance. By now they should have known...
"The boy's name is Jacques Rimbaud, the son of this coward Gilles Rimbaud!" Shocked cries rose up in the square. "He chose to save his own skin first before even thinking his son might be somewhere still if not right beside him," Miller continued. "Why, you people might ask, did Gilles Rimbaud not leave the cathedral immediately and brave those same bullets that flew around Jacques, to search for his child, to save his son? What manner of a coward does this? If you are looking for traitors, collaborators and lily-livered men of St. Clair, I tell you now, here is one standing right in front of you! Look at him! See him for the out and out deserter he is, letting women of France fight battles he should have been engaged in!"
Charlie heard a slow hiss go up from the people. They were voicing their displeasure, of that he was certain, because the hissing was accompanied by angry stares at Rimbaud.
"Now he takes his fight to defenceless women! Shame on him!"
"Shame on him!" cried the people.
Miller pushed Rimbaud to the ground. Immediately Longman pitched forward intending to kick him. Lamine stopped him.
"You will live to fight another day, Private Longman. Let him go and let him reflect on his own cowardice."
"Go home, all of you! Party's over!" Davis shouted.
When they had cleared the square, Miller pulled Davis aside and issued a few instructions.
"We want these women guarded round the clock, understand?"
Davis click his heels and saluted.
"Yes, Captain!"
1730 - Katrine's apartment
He sensed from the moment he placed his hand under her elbow that Katrine was stressed, in pain, shaking like a leaf and distraught at what had almost happened in the square. Her shivering continued all the way to her home. She led him along the Rue St. Agnes, past the Coeur de Lion, to a building on the corner of St. Agnes and Rue Viete. It was afternoon and it would remain light till early evening. He cast her a glance but did not speak. Her teeth were chattering. Somehow it was in such contrast to when he'd met the feisty, strong leader of the Resistance movement, he wondered if Katrine had two personalities.
He gave her arm a gentle squeeze. She glanced up, her eyes grateful. A warmth swamped him when she quietly rested her head against his arm. So they walked on until she stopped at a door. Katrine turned the knob and opened the door.
"S'il vous plaît, will you come in?" she asked, a pleading in her voice.
He nodded and entered. When the door closed behind them, he looked around the lounge. He immediately noticed the framed photographs on the mantelpiece above the fireplace. One showed a man with a little girl. The man had curly dark hair, a beard, his eyes smiling as he looked at the little girl. Miller would ask Katrine about that later, he decided, unless she spoke of it herself.
He was instantly attentive when she stumbled against the table, giving a little cry of pain.
"Katrine, you are not well. You are still limping."
He grasped her slender shoulders, so very aware of the blue dress that seemed to accentuate the shape of her body. He had to rein in his emotions as he pressed her down gently on the couch. She sagged gratefully into it.
"Merci, Charles, for everything you've done for us."
He sat down beside her and pulled her into his embrace. It was an instinctive move as he held her to him. She looked so close to breaking point he almost sensed the moment she was going to start weeping.
But he made her look at him, to try and veer off the urge to cry.
"You asked last night about my personal mission to you. So I have to tell you this first."
"You seemed to know me when we met," she stated. It felt to her a lifetime ago.
"My brother is Professor of History and International Affairs at Harvard University. A group of Harvard scientists wanted him to ask me to look you up when I entered France."
"I wrote them early in 1942," she said. Charlie noticed how Katrine's face creased with unhappiness and pain.
"Yes, they were concerned that they had not heard from you again. You asked for one of them to offer a home to your daughter so that she would be safe in the United States."
He watched how Katrine tried to rein in her emotions with superhuman strength. She jumped up, gave a cry of pain as she clutched her thigh. Tears sprang into her eyes.
"You don't know..."
"What happened to your husband and your daughter?"
"If only I had written again! If only I had sent Célestine!" she began wailing.
"Her name is Célestine?"
"They are dead! Both of them!"
Then Katrine began to weep in earnest. Her shoulders shook violently.
Charles stood up to comfort her, but she jerked away, her flailing arm knocking all the photos from the mantelpiece. They went flying to the floor, the glass shattering, the frames bent.
"Dead!"
Charlie bent to pick up the broken frames.
"How-how did they die?" he asked, almost afraid to hear her answer, yet sensing innately what she was going to say.
"They were Jews, you hear me? Jews! For that they were punished!"
Katrine lunged for him as he rose to his feet to place the frames back on the mantelpiece. She tried to thrust the pictures from his hands but he deftly moved so that her attempt proved fruitless. Her tears flew from her eyes, it seemed. When he'd stacked the three photos on the mantelpiece, he grabbed her arms. The sobs wracked her body. She began beating his chest, but he ignored the thumping as he gripped her shoulders. She winced; he realised belatedly that her one shoulder had been grazed by a bullet.
"How did they die, Katrine?" he asked again. Charles was certain now that Katrine had probably not spoken to anyone of her pain, of her tragic loss. "How?"
She pushed him violently away from her. This time he saw her eyes shoot angry sparks.
"They were taken from my home when my back was turned!" she sobbed. "Beaten and loaded on a truck like cattle. Cattle! Joseph and Célestine. She was so small, so innocent!"
Katrine paused, then sank to the floor. Just in time he caught her and brought her to the couch. She was so distressed, he wondered if he shouldn't take her back to their medical tents. But she clung to him, desperately trying to control the distress that threatened to derail her completely. He cradled her against him, rocking her while she cried her heart out.
His own eyes filled with tears. He knew pain and loss. A baby was waiting for him to come home, a baby with no mother and father. Katrine was drowning in her pain. He did not know how to offer her any solace other than just holding her. His shirt was soaked with her tears but he didn't care. She felt frail in his arms, frail and sad and lost, he thought. Lost. So he just held her. Through her window he could see it was slowly getting darker. How long had he sat with her? He had little idea of the time that had passed.
Or that Katrine had stopped her tormented weeping. On an impulse he pressed his lips against her hair. She stirred and raised her tear stained face. She gazed at him for what seemed like an eternity.
Then Katrine began to speak.
The last thing she remembered was Lucien Blériot raising the butt of his rifle. She'd woken in her bed with a concerned Lamine bending over her.
"Lamine Bhoutayeb was with you?"
"He crawled into our lives and Joseph, sweet Joseph who didn't have a discriminating bone in his body, treated him. He became our friend."
"What happened then?" Charles asked.
"We went to see Lucien Blériot. I was once engaged to him, but broke it off when I met Joseph and fell in love. Lucien...was a mistake... He laughed at us and told us they'd been taken to a concentration camp."
She remembered that day and a shudder passed through her body. They'd gone to see the magistrate at his official chambers. Lucien had been arrogant; he had the upper hand. He'd dismissed them from his office and ordered them not to bother him again. They'd left, but she had been demented as she tried to run back to confront Lucien again. Lamine stopped her, pulling her with him until they were back in the street again. She was about to scream her agony in the road, filled as she was with extreme hatred for Blériot. Lamine managed to calm her, holding her so that she couldn't looked away from his concerned gaze.
"We live to fight another day. We shall search for them."
"They're alive somewhere! I know it!"
"Katrine, you need to rest. You are too distraught."
"If we don't search right now, we're losing valuable time finding them! I cannot rest until I know what has happened to them!" she cried. "We must not stop looking!"
So they drew a map of the areas where they knew concentration camps had been built in Germany - Dachau, Natzweiler, Buchenwald, Bergen-Belsen... They travelled to Switzerland, to Belgium, even as far as Natzweiler in Germany. They were told in no uncertain terms that they did not have inmates by the names of Joseph and Célestine Blumenthal. They had been abused, rejected, Lamine spat upon. Yet she refused to give up on her search for her husband and daughter. In the evenings when they returned home exhausted after a day's fruitless search, Lamine would wind up her old phonograph and play soft music. But her body was in a state of continual turmoil, a constant restlessness that invaded her even in her sleep.
"Why did you decide to stop looking?" Charles asked.
Katrine's eyes were glazed as she turned to look at him, struggling to emerge into the present.
"One day when we returned from a search, we found the house had been burgled. They took nothing except a painting that had hung above the mantelpiece. Only that."
Katrine thought of that night. She'd noticed instantly that the painting was gone the minute they'd stepped into the lounge. It was something that had drawn her attention immediately - the rectangular mark where the painting had hung.
"Katrine?"
"It's gone!" she whispered desperately.
"What?" Lamine asked, too slow for her to notice that something was missing.
"The Matisse..."
"Oh, Katrine!" Lamine's voice was filled with compassion as he too, noticed the pale outline left by the missing painting.
She'd been devastated that the Matisse was stolen. But she had refused to weep over the loss of her painting. She blamed herself that she didn't hide it like they had done with artworks of owners in the Paris surrounds. Her tears for Joseph and Célestine had begun to flow inwards..
"Who could have done this?" she asked Lamine.
"I would not put two gold bars past that batard Blériot. He must have something to do with this."
She looked wide-eyed at Lamine. Wide-eyed because it made so much sense. Nothing else from their home was taken, except the painting. Who would stand to gain by such a theft? Blériot had Nazi sympathies. He could easily have confiscated it. Katrine closed her eyes. Blériot had a lot to pay for. He hated her, hated that she chose to marry someone else.
"He is a coward, Katrine."
"More than that. Out of sheer jealousy he wanted revenge. He got his revenge. Now this..." she said softly as she gazed at the empty space above the mantelpiece.
"Why did you come to St. Clair?" Captain Miller asked. Again Katrine struggled to surface to the present.
She remembered how demented she had been in the months following Joseph and Célestine's capture. All the trails they followed, all the trails that ran dead, the rejections, the rebuffing, the cruelty of the Germans. She remembered how she refused to lie down and rest, remembering her little girl who played the violin with such extraordinary ability. Then one day...
"Lucien Blériot came to my home."
"What did he want that he had not already taken so violently from you?" Miller asked, shifting so that she could lie comfortably against him. She snuggled closer, closing her eyes at the memory of that day.
There was a knock on her door. Lamine had cautioned her not to open. He had gone to open the door.
"Where is Katrine?" Blériot asked.
"What do you want from her, Blériot?"
Blériot simply stepped over the threshold into her lounge as if he belonged there. He strutted like a Gestapo officer. In his hand he held a letter.
"Step out of the way, Bhoutayeb. My business is with Katrine."
"Then be done with your business. She has been hurt enough by you!"
"What do you want?" she asked Blériot.
"Here. A formal letter from German High Command. Do not say I do not give favours around here."
"I need no favours from you - " Katrine started, then stopped as she opened the letter and began to read.
Katrine gave a sob and sank slowly down to her knees. She heard Blériot's jackal-like laugh before he exited the lounge and slammed the door with a vicious bang. She thought she had no more tears. She had thought she could not weep any more than in the first month after her husband and daughter's disappearance. Her cheeks were wet, the letter falling from her lifeless fingers.
Lamine had picked up the letter and began reading aloud.
Dear Mme Blumenthal
The German garrison in Paris have discovered a number of bodies in a field 20 miles from Paris. Two of the bodies are of your husband Joseph Eleazar Blumenthal and the other your daughter Célestine Héloise Blumenthal.
They have died before they could be taken to work camps in Germany. We understand that you have conducted searches for your family. We assure you that every prisoner had been documented and that your husband and daughter are not among the living.
Please do not continue your search. It is fruitless in the light of this communication to you. We encourage your co-operation in this regard.
The German Constabulary
Paris.
"Katrine...Katrine..."
From a long way she heard Charles Miller's voice pulling her back, for she had begun to shiver violently again. He was concerned and so he pulled her closer in his embrace. She felt feverish, her forehead beaded with perspiration. The shudders took a long time to subside.
At last she straightened up, seeing with surprise that there were tears in his eyes too.
"I had no doubt that they were dead, Charles."
"Why? Did you lose hope then?"
"The hope that kept me going died that day. Lamine and I drove to that railway line deep in a forest glade. There were mounds. There were bodies lying there. It was winter, the bodies had decomposed. It was impossible to identify them. Joseph had been sick the day they were captured."
"They shot him right there in the forest," Charles stated flatly. "What about your daughter?"
"We found the bare remains of a child's body. It had to be that of Célestine. Her little teddy bear she always carried when she was not playing the violin lay there in the tall grass."
"I am sorry, so sorry to hear of their fate."
"Now I live on memories alone. I miss them, Célestine mostly. Joseph..." Katrine gave a deep sigh. "I loved him deeply. He was so positive, outgoing, loved sports..."
"Did he play sports?"
Katrine shook her head. "But he was involved. He was team doctor of the French team at the Olympics in Berlin in 1936."
Miller sat up straight, looking Katrine in the eye.
"I was in Germany in '36."
"Oh? Could you have met Joseph then?"
"I don't think so. I was rowing for the United States and spent most of the time in the Olympic village."
"Rowing?"
"Coxed eights. We won gold."
"Coxswain...was that you?"
"How did you know?"
"You were a leader even then, Charles Anson Miller."
Miller smiled grimly. They called him 'captain' at university.
"Joseph gave Berry a hard time!" Katrine continued, a gentle, reflective smile suddenly transforming her features. "That one raced with a damaged knee, mostly worried that Brigitte would kill him for falling from his bike. Joseph..." Katrine sighed deeply at the memory of her husband. "He was a good man."
"It never mattered that he was Jewish and I a non-Jew. Why should it have? We were in love; we saw no barriers for there were none. But when we married, we always knew Lucien Blériot would trouble us."
He noticed how tired she was becoming. He pulled her up. "You need sleep. I'll wait here and you can call me when you're ready."
"For what?" she asked, a sudden apprehension in her gaze. He clucked impatiently.
"I am going to stick around to make sure you are safe."
She looked very long at him, her eyes filling with tears again.
"Merci," she whispered."
"You are most welcome, Katrine du Plessis."
When Katrine vanished into her bedroom, Charlie sat down on the couch, his head in his hands, wondering how he was ever going to forget a pair of sad, sad, blue-grey eyes.
END CHAPTER NINE