Ch. 22— The Blind Leading the Blind

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It was Thursday. Four days after Christmas. Andre had yet to arrive, and Erik was getting worried.

It had now been a full week since Andre had come back to the little cottage and provisions were low.

Just this morning, Christine informed him she had used the last of the eggs. The milk had been gone for two days, and the gas-powered generator had run dry this morning. They had plenty of firewood, but if they had another cold snap like they'd had before Christmas, then they would be in trouble.

This was a summer cottage, and as such, it wasn't insulated to house occupants during the winter months. That was one of the reasons Erik had chosen to come here in the first place. But oddly, he found it difficult to ever believe or remember why he wanted to come up here to die.

When he moved up here, he'd figured the cliff, the cold, or the damned Nazis would have taken him out by now.

Of course, he had not counted on one determined, steadfast, and courageous slip of a woman coming up here to live with him. It was ironic to think in this place that was supposed to have been his tomb—his chosen instrument of self-abasement, torture, and eventual death—he had discovered such happiness as to be found in the arms of his little mouse.

And yet, even though his sight had not been restored him, Erik found he had ever so much to live for now… now that he had a diva: a diva that was a musical prodigy.

Her sire, for all his faults, had created the perfect instrument when he'd trained and molded her.

Once was all she needed to hear a song and put it to memory. Only once. Her quick and agile mind boggled him.

She wasn't like that with everything. Facts and figures, even lyrics to songs she would have to ask to be repeated, but notes—music—she could recall with precision-perfect accuracy.

Erik smiled wryly. She'd even corrected him once or twice about the notations on his score.

Her sire had created the perfect storm of isolation, perfectionism, and an attitude that was eager to please.

In other words, he created the perfect diva.

She was a perfectionist in her work… what was that term the Austrian psychoanalyst Freud had called it…neurosis? Ms. Daae had a definite neurosis when it came to music; the bastard that sired her had ensured it, may his soul burn eternally in hell.

She would not be haughty or put on airs; just thinking of his Christine ever behaving like his last diva was laughable.

And if that wasn't enough, the girl was so accommodating, she could perfectly sing Mozart's aria "Queen of the Night" one moment and pull more logs from the porch for the fire the next.

Oh, his dear girl!

He needed to get them back to civilization… tomorrow if possible.

"Christine."

Rising from the piano bench, Erik walked to the kitchen where he knew she'd be. From the sound of it, she was peeling something… probably potatoes. They seemed to be having a lot of potato dishes lately—most likely due to the dwindling stores.

He walked over to where he knew she sat and placed his hands gently upon her shoulders. "I want you to begin preparing the cottage for our departure; we're going to have to leave tomorrow mid-morning at the latest."

Her shoulders stiffened beneath his hands.

Erik had found touching her while he spoke to be the best gauge of her initial reactions to his words.

Her words tended to be very few, and she still sometimes stuttered them when voicing of him a request, or contradicting him in some manner. He began to softly knead away the tension his words caused her as he explained, "Andre has not come for nearly a week."

"I'm quite worried about him, sir," was her solemnly-voiced reply.

"Erik, Christine." And that was another thing they were going to have to work on. Although she had ceased calling him Mr. D'Anton… for the most part, she still had this habit of calling him 'sir'.

Erik didn't precisely find it distasteful. There were, in fact, times he liked it, such as during their transcription work when he was giving her explicit instruction as to how a piece of music should be sung. And it was rather erotic to have her mumble an 'oh, sir' when he was kissing her senseless.

He was honest and man enough to admit he enjoyed tha—

"Do you think we should go looking for him?"

Her innocently voiced question doused his thoughts like ice water to a burning coal. "Andre? No, why should we?"

"Because something could have happened to him. Aren't you always telling me to be careful, use caution whenever I go outside?"

"Well, yes. But Andre is different."

"Different how?" she countered.

"Different in he is a man and an experienced veteran of war, Christine."

She shook her head, and Erik literally felt the rise of apprehension radiating from her little body. "Though a man he may be, he is still human, sir. And as such, he's subject to the perils that could befall him especially in this place, or so you keep telling me."

"The truth is, Christine, I am a bit worried, but not overly so. Andre is capable. Very capable. But he's also a bit inconsistent at times… and this time of year is especially hard for him. For you see, he lost his entire family to a camp in Dachau in 1942." He heard her gasp and he squeezed her shoulders comfortingly. "Although it does surprise me he has not notified me of his absence—either through word or deed—I am hardly shocked."

Hesitantly, her hands rose to cover his. "So what does this mean for us?"

Oh, he liked that—her referring to them as an 'us'. Turning his hands, he grasped hers and held on. "It means we need to begin preparation for our return to Paris on tomorrow's afternoon train."

"And how are we going to get to this train, sir?" Her voice sounded uncertain.

"That's easy, my dear. We're going to walk…" Erik gave a cynical smile, "through the land-mine encrusted roads of Le Havre."

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"Christine, have you almost finished packing, dear?"

"I— well, yes." Christine turned to find Mr. D'Anton behind her, and he was clutching a pair of his boots.

It was late morning of the following day, and as she made a final survey of her room, Christine was glad she had chosen to pack light. As it was, she was having to leave the majority of her clothes and things here at the cottage because Mr. D'Anto—Erik had instructed she carry only that which would fit into her valise.

Coming up behind her, he gave her a quick embrace and a kiss upon the cheek. "Sit down upon the bed for me," he told her.

Curious, Christine did as requested, and he knelt before her, taking one of her feet in his hands, and smirking as he felt for her shoe. "Ever the practical Nurse Daae with her sensible shoes and sinful stocking-clad legs. You will have to tell me how you come by your stockings when the entire country is without."

She trembled as she felt his fingers teasingly knead the backside of her knee following the seam of her stocking and then her calf to her shoe. He removed her shoe, and drawing her foot to his mouth, the man kissed her on the instep. That feeling which was so new, and yet, seemed always to now be present, kindled to life within her.

He propped her foot on his shoulder, and wide-eyed, she gulped. "Mr. D'Anto—E-Erik…w-what are you…?" He smiled as he brought out from his jacket a couple pairs of rolled up socks and held them up.

"I wish you could wear your own shoes, as practical as they are, but they aren't feasible for walking in the mud and snow-encrusted road. The rolled up socks in the toes as well as the layers of thick socks I'm going to put on you should enable you to walk in my boots and protect your feet from mud and ice."

Christine bit her lip as he performed this act for her, dressing her, caring for her. Her heart was already lost to him—that much was true—but… well, he shouldn't be this nice to her. She really wished he wouldn't. Because then she would get used to it, and one day, perhaps when he regained his sight, he would truly see her for who she was—the poor, plain, gawky and strange girl she was, and he would desert her, breaking her heart—her soul—to pieces.

"There, that should just about do it. How do they feel?" Mr. D'Anton asked as he finished lacing up the boots.

"They're errm…" He helped her to stand, and Christine tried to shuffle her feet. "I don't know if I can errm…" He led her forward until she had no choice but to take a step or fall, and she did so with a clunky stumble. Her feet felt weighted as if she were tethered to the floor.

"They'll suffice until we get to town, and you can change out of them. Now, are you ready to go?"

"I am, sir," Christine muttered anxiously.

Taking her valise in hand, she gave a last longing look at the small room that was hers, before she closed the door, feeling as if she was leaving a small part of herself behind.

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Erik felt a moment's trepidation when they stepped foot outside the little cottage.

He was leaving this strange little heaven. And yet, he had a longing to return to his Opera, to its corridors and secret passages that he could walk blind.

But first, he needed to navigate them safely through this hell.

And he was going to do so… with a bloody cane.

"Christine, you will need to walk where I do, dear, step where I step. The road, for a certainty, is lined with landmines to prevent the enemy from flanking passing convoys so step where I step. Yes?"

"Yes, sir." Her voice sounded tremulous, uncertain. Erik held out his hand and heard her awkward, shuffling gait as she made her way to where he stood. She put her small, mittened hand in his, and he squeezed it reassuringly.

"Good. Now, as with dinner, you are going to give me degrees, coordinates, and lay-lines. You are going to describe for me the terrain, and anyone we should come across. Although, I imagine I shall hear their approach long before then if they are in a vehicle. The middle of the road is truly the safest place for us to traverse, and so, that is how we are going to go along. Yes?"

"Y-yes."

"If in the event someone should come along, stay behind me and let me do the talking. Should we come across someone, I do not want them knowing I'm blind. And so, I will be taking point in front of you, and you shall guard my back."

She did not respond, and Erik moved closer to her, feeling first her shoulders then her face. Her stance was rigid, tense.

She was frightened as well he knew she should be.

He drew her against him and whispered in her ear, "It will be alright, little mouse. Think of this as just an adventure… an adventure you can tell your grandchildren about someday, hmm?" He gave her a small peck on the cheek, and then said confidently, "Now Ms. Daae, give me direction."

Erik followed her instructions to the letter, and he blessed her no-nonsense, level-headedness even though she plainly dreaded what they were about to do. Like the woman herself, her directions were clear, concise, with no embellishments, and he found himself picturing the lane, not as how he remembered it… for how he remembered it was not now how it was, but exactly as she described: down to the breadth of the road, the divots where car tires had rolled and made ice-laden, muddied slush, and the mound of near pristine snow in the middle of the lane where they would traverse.

Cane in one hand, suitcase in the other, Erik began to navigate the road, hearing Christine's shuffling footsteps behind him.

Le Havre, before the allies had struck in September, had been occupied by German forces.

Operation Astonia had been the name of the Allies attack to take back this integral foothold of a port town. When the Allies struck—and they had been mostly British military—they unloaded their British naval guns and RAF bombers decimating the town and leaving it virtual smoldering ruin. Over five thousand civilian lives had been lost, and not a single Nazi was given quarter… even when they had asked for a two-day armistice so they could evacuate the town.

Once the war was over, Erik knew this port-town would again see a rise in traffic. It was a connecting point between France and Great Britain, and as such, the foreign foot soldiers that had come over here to fight would pass through again on their way back home, much as the port town of Dover, England would be swamped on the other shore.

The journey to town on foot should take approximately two hours to complete, allowing for his limp and Christine's shuffling gait, and he dearly hoped they would encounter no one.

But if they did, Erik was prepared.

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Carefully, Christine picked her way through the mound of snow in the middle of the muddied dirt road, conscientiously stepping where Mr. D' Ant—Erik stepped. He was using his cane but not as a blind person would, slowly swiping it back and forth along the path. No, he was using it as a prop to help minimize his limp, and she guessed to also keep him centered on the mound of snow.

She noticed that if his cane didn't sink into the snow, he was quick to redirect his course. She hadn't even had to correct him. Not once. If there was a bend in the road, Christine would tell him long before it was coming up, and he would instinctively count his steps and turn, following her directions.

It made her feel useful helping him in this way. And honestly, if someone were to come upon them, looking as he was, with his hat pulled low to hide his scars, no one would be able to tell he was blind.

She had assumed he would want her at his side, perhaps guiding him, but no, he did not, and she could understand why. He wanted to appear as capable, as independent as possible to be in case someone came across them.

They had been walking perhaps forty minutes when suddenly he stopped and held up his hand; Christine stood still waiting expectantly.

He said lowly, "Someone's coming in an automobile. I need you to describe everything you see, Ms. Daae."

Christine waited expectantly, straining her ears for sounds of the approaching vehicle. She heard nothing for a few seconds, and then finally she heard a puttering engine and tires sluicing through the mud and slush seconds before the vehicle appeared around a bend in the road.

Christine answered quickly, "It's military… looks like, yes, they have a French flag on the side. It's a Jeep with no roof, a gun on the back, and four men, all armed, all dressed in army fatigues with an 'MP' as badges on the arms of their uniforms. They've spotted us."

"Hmm, they are French Military Police," Mr. D'Anton mumbled. "They are slowing down. Remember what I said, little mouse."

Christine nodded her head, and then winced, when she remembered he couldn't see her, and said, "Yes, sir. I remember."

They were perhaps twenty-five feet away when the vehicle pulled slowly to a stop in the middle of the lane quite blocking their path. She and Mr. D'Anton could not go around them if what he said was true. To do so would mean to court a most gruesome death from a landmine should either of them stumble upon one.

She gulped.

"Monsieur, madam," the dark-haired man in the passenger seat nodded to them, looking at the two of them suspiciously. "This is an awfully unusual time to go for a walk, now isn't it? What with the war and all?"

Seeing Mr. D'Anton and her through their eyes, Christine did have to admit they looked suspicious.

Mr. D'Anton was as bundled as she'd ever seen him wearing a wide-brimmed hat, a long dark woolen coat, and a scarf piled high obscuring the sides of his face and coming to his nose. The majority of his scars and blank-staring eyes were effectively hidden from view, but unfortunately, he looked… well, suspect.

"My wife and I are headed to town to catch the two fifteen to Paris." Christine looked up at him, astonished. His wife?! Who on Earth would believe she was his wife?! "We've been staying in a little cottage a few miles back for our honeymoon."

Sure enough, the man talking—the one who seemed to be in charge— looked disbelieving. "Honeymoon? In Le Havre? In winter? And why didn't you call a cab to take you? It's awfully dangerous out here walking the roads alone."

"We didn't have access to a phone line. I wasn't able to have one installed before the city was blown to bits. Could we possibly use your radio to get a cab out here, or, perhaps even a ride back into town?"

"I'm afraid not." The man in the passenger seat spoke again. "We just got word there's a band of Nazi deserters on the move from Calais and headed here, looking for a way out of the country." The man narrowed his eyes at them and focused on Mr. D'Anton's face, particularly what little of his face he could see. "Say, you haven't seen them, have you?"

"No." Mr. D'Anton answered curtly, a note of impatience entering his voice.

The man fingered the pistol at his side nervously, and Christine could see the others in the Jeep doing the same. She swallowed fearfully.

"Who'd you say you were again?" the man asked, and there was no mistaking the note of suspicion in his voice.

"I didn't. But if you must know, my name is Field Commissioned First Lieutenant D'Anton of the French Army, and this is my wife, Christine."

"Lieutenant D'Anton… why do I know that name…?"

The one seated behind him in the vehicle clapped him on the shoulder, causing him to jump. "Hey, Sarge! That's Erik D'Anton! He's the owner of the Populaire and one of de Gaulle's originals. Jesus! He's one of the men who helped infiltrate the Vichy regime and unite us all in the French Resistance. Yes, sir! He rubbed elbows with ol' Adolf himself and didn't blink, he did!"

Christine watched, fascinated, as the young man hopped out of the Jeep and rushed over to Mr. D'Anton in a long-limbed gallop.

He was young and reminded her of a puppy—all eagerness and gangles.

The young man held out his hand and waited.

Of course Mr. D'Anton couldn't see.

"Left hand forty-five," Christine mumbled quietly into her scarf and watched as Mr. D'Anton's left hand shot out precisely at a forty-five degree angle to grasp and shake the Private's hand. One by one, all of the men except the driver, who remained steadfast at his position, exited the Jeep and made their way over to greet him and pat him on the back.

"Jesus, I can't believe it's you!" said the eager young Private. "Can't tell you how proud I am, sir, to shake your hand. Wait until I tell the others. They won't believe it. And say, weren't you seein' that starlet… what's her name… Carlotta? Man, is she quite the smokin'—"

"PRIVATE!" the Sergeant yelled, elbowing the younger man in the stomach. "Lieutenant D'Anton is with his wife."

Christine pursed her lips together and tried not to laugh at the expression on the young man's face as he looked at her. Far from taking offense, Christine actually found his reaction quite humorous. He turned three shades of red and whispered an abject, "I'm so sorry, ma'am."

"It's alright. I'm not really—"

"—comfortable being out here in the frozen snow, gentlemen." Mr. D'Anton interrupted her. "My wife and I need to get going if we are to make that train. That is, unless you could now see to escorting us the rest of the way?"

"Oh, yes, sir! Right away, sir," the clearly star-struck Private agreed, snapping a salute at him.

The Sergeant only shook his head. "Afraid not, Lieutenant. We're on strict patrol until this band of deserting scum is caught. Orders, you see?"

"I understand, Sergeant," Mr. D'Anton said tightly.

"But we'll tell headquarters you're here, sir, and someone'll be along shortly to pick you up. If you don't mind my asking, sir, why aren't you with the others in the fighting? They should have made you a captain, sir! And here I thought you more than anyone else'd want to see that Nazi rat-faced bastard brought down."

"Sergeant, there is a lady present," Mr. D'Anton warned softly.

Turning red at the ears, the Sergeant tipped his hat to her. "Pardon, ma'am."

Mr. D'Anton explained acidly, "The reason I am not fighting, gentlemen, is because I was wounded by a German mortar shell the day before Paris was liberated. This cane," Mr. D'Anton held it up for their scrutiny, "unfortunately, is not an affectation. Now, it sounds as if you have places to be."

"Y-yes, sir! Quite right." The Sergeant snapped a salute at Mr. D'Anton and walked back to his seat in the Jeep. "We'll get on the horn right now, sir, and tell 'em where to find you."

"See that you do."

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It was too quiet.

They had been walking for perhaps thirty minutes, and they were closer to town. There should be more noise than this, more industry. At this point, he should hear sounds of hammering, of reconstruction as parts of the city recovered itself; there should be more traffic, perhaps even foot soldiers guarding the lane. And the taxi the French military police promised they would send should have come upon them by now.

Even the birds in the trees were silent.

It was almost as if nature was holding its collective breath.

He held up his hand, the reason, he did not know. But there was something, someone out there… preying on them. "Christine," he whispered, "I want you to stay close and do exactly as I say. Yes?"

"Alright." That frightened note in her voice was back.

"Take a quick glance behind your left shoulder. What is it you see, dear?"

"A few snow-covered scrub –bushes and a tree, and… oh god, it's a man and he's got a gun, and he's pointing it straight at us!"

"Stay calm, my dear. No need to panic. Do not look at him. Keep calm and keep walking. Now, take a quick glance to your right."

"Yes, there's another one. He doesn't have a gun that I can see, but there's a knife. And they are walking with us."

"And how are they dressed, dear?"

"Errm… like German infantry."

A twig cracked in front of them, and Erik stopped. That had been a deliberate sound; intentionally given by this little marauding band's leader as a signal.

"What are their degrees and radius to us?"

"Errm… two-seventy and oh… three-fifteen…. they're about fifteen steps away and closing."

"Now, do you see any more in front of us?"

"Yes, there are two; one at sixty-five and one at one-hundred forty…they're errm… they're seven steps away and holding."

"Good girl. Now, say absolutely nothing," Erik ordered her.

"Sprechen sie Deutsch?" He heard the man in front of them call out. He was the one at sixty-five; the leader that had snapped the twig.

"I don't understand," Erik replied in French.

"This is ridiculous, Uri!" The other at their left flank—the one with the knife— Monsieur Two-seventy spoke in German, "We outnumber them four to two. Let's take their bags, slit their throats, and be gone."

"Nien!" said the other flanking their right: Monsieur Three-fifteen. "Not the girl. Her throat's far too pretty to be slit. I'll take my pleasure in her first." Erik dearly hoped Christine did not understand German.

As it was, he was counting down their steps as the bastards approached them.

"We just want the bags," the one in front of them at one-hundred forty said. "Let's take them and be gone. He doesn't seem like he'd put up much of a fight. I've been watching him. He favors his left leg. It would be easy to over-power the man, and the girl is nothing special, Friedhelm. Leave her be."

"I said I want her, and I'm going to have her." Erik heard the one named Friedhelm—the one behind them and to the right— draw closer.

"Christine. Duck down on my mark," Erik spoke softly in French hoping to God she heard him as the two from behind them began closing in.

Breathing out on a count of three, Erik waited.

"Now!" he roared as he spun and drew the rapier sword from the cane he held, using the oak casing as a bludgeon. He struck the one with the knife in the hand for he heard the clatter of metal as the knife fell to the ground. Then there was the sound of weapons drawn and primed, but he was already behind his intended victim 'Friedhelm'. He was the one that wanted to rape Christine, and with his rapier sword brandished at the man's throat, Erik held them all at bay using the dastard as a human shield.

Erik commanded in standard German, "Get back, all of you or I will slit his throat." He heard rustling and counted, two of them had moved. Two of them were affected by the hypnotic command in his voice.

He could work with that.

"We don't want a fight." The one to the left of Friedhelm said, the one unaffected by his hypnotism—"We only want the bags and any money you may have. Nobody has to get hurt here."

Erik's grip on the rapier tightened, drawing a thin line of blood from the man's throat, he knew, and there was now a distinct tang of urine present in the air. It seemed Friedhelm had pissed himself.

"Ms. Daae, rise and come stand behind me," Erik voiced in French. A rustle of cloth told him she was complying with his demand. "Huddle against my back, little mouse, and do not hear or see what I am going to do next until I tell you to 'awaken'. Yes?"

"Yes," she repeated mechanically as if in a trance.

He addressed them in German, "I want the three of you remaining gentlemen to form a small circle in front of me. Your friend will be dead where he stands if you do not." Erik tightened his grip on the rapier, and the dastard named Friedhelm gasped and choked begging his friends to do what Erik demanded—anything he demanded.

"Uri, what do we do?" The one that was unaffected by his voice asked of their leader.

"Form a circle; do what he says," The one named Uri spoke from ahead of them.

"Move now, gentlemen," Erik ordered them. He heard three distinct footfalls shift in front of him.

"Now Uri, you will tell me how big the circle you've formed is," Erik commanded.

"About four feet between each of us."

"That's no good, gentlemen. I want you to get closer. Close enough to touch… say two feet between you. Do all of you have pistols?"

"Yes." Uri replied worshipfully.

The other also said 'yes', and Erik could hear the leather creak as his weapon was pulled from its holster.

"Aim them at each other's heads," Erik ordered calmly.

"What?! Raoulf! What are you doing?" The dissenter who was not influenced by Erik's voice asked, panicked.

"Fire," Erik commanded mercilessly.

Two gunshots broke the silence of the forested road; the man he was holding—Friedhelm –went limp in Erik's arms. The German filth had fainted dead away.

"Who's left?" Erik asked.

"Uri. Uri Kahler," the man replied calmly.

"I want you to come over here, Uri, and kill Friedhelm by putting your gun to his temple and pulling the trigger. Then you will do the same for yourself. Yes?"

"Yes," the German swine muttered sycophantically.

A few seconds later, a single gunshot broke the stillness of the forest… followed by another.

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A/N: What about that Erik, eh? Still a force to be reckoned with as blind and maimed as he is, and Christine—brave girl. However, my favorite character in this chapter is the star-struck private. ;)

So, I've turned a milestone with this novel. A very tricksy bit o' plot kept eluding me in how to resolve it, and it did so for years…. Buuut this time, I kept at it and powered through… and y'all, I finally did it. HUZZAH! :0)

I'd like to thank each of you for continuing to read my little tale, your follows, your favorites, and your reviews make my day.

Cheers!

PFP