Clash by Night (13 page)

The German boy stared intently into the shadows, certain that something was not quite right, and then decided to err on the side of caution. He shouldered his rifle, yelling “
Halt! Achtung! Halt
!” and dashed toward the barricade. The sentinel in the high tower above the barracks turned his searchlight on the compound, bathing the border area in a blinding white light. And Curel’s friend, reacting to the sudden commotion and seeking to cover himself, turned the power back on.

The shock traveled up Alain’s arm with numbing speed, and his fingers let go reflexively. He tumbled to the ground outside the camp. Bullets whined overhead as they ricocheted off the bricks at the top of the wall, spraying the air with cement chips. The Germans were playing it safe.
 

Michel bolted forward to help his friend, who was on his hands and knees, obviously injured, but Alain shoved him away.

“Go!” he shouted. “Get the stuff to Curel.”

The brothers stared at him uncertainly for a second, but there was no time to argue. The Germans were setting up an awful din; a siren began its strident wail and the sounds of running feet and shouting were getting closer. The Thibeau boys set off for the woods in a bowlegged run, each carrying a crate, and left Alain behind.

Desperate, surrounded, Alain reacted like a cat: he climbed a tree. Using his uninjured arm to take the weight of his body, he swung up into the lower branches of a nearby beech and curled into a ball, peering through the wet leaves. The Germans would expect any intruder to flee on foot, thinking that he had made it over the wire, and his only hope was to hide out until they’d passed him.

He could hear a babble of excited German as the soldiers inside tried to decide whether there had been anyone there or not. Typically, they opted for a search. The side gate of the camp burst open, and a flood of uniforms poured out of it, followed by a jeep traveling at top speed. Alain recognized Becker standing in the back; the colonel apparently stayed up late and was on hand to deal with the crisis. A squad of infantrymen ran by under Alain, evidently on orders to search the woods. His heart jumped into his throat as he waited for one of them to look up, but they pelted on into the darkness, rustling the undergrowth as they went. Other soldiers dispersed into the alleys that led to the main street of Bar-le-Duc, fronting the hospital and the officers’ quarters. In a matter of a minute he was alone, his enemies already far flung in their search.

Alain was sure the beat of his pulse was audible; his hands were shaking so much that he clasped them together, as if he were praying. But he was not. He had more faith in his own initiative than the benign intervention of a distant, formless God. He waited for the tingling to recede from his fingers, hoping that they would work again when he got down from the tree.
 

For he couldn’t remain where he was very long. Once the soldiers found nothing they would either decide it had been a false alarm after all, or come back and cover the same ground again, this time more thoroughly. They were pedestrian in their approach but far from stupid. His ruse had bought him some time, but he would be caught if he stayed.

He sighed and closed his eyes. Where could he go? He thought briefly of sneaking into the hospital and hiding out somewhere inside it, but then discarded the idea. It was the first thing that would occur to the Germans. Nothing else was open in Bar-le-Duc, thanks to the curfew, and if he took his chances on a private house he might stumble onto someone who would turn him in. No harbor was guaranteed safe; the climate of fear could make a traitor of almost anybody.

He crawled out on a bottom limb and lowered himself the length of his arms, making the drop to the ground as short as possible. He landed awkwardly, his trembling legs uncertain, but he discovered that he could walk. He ran forward, intending to cut through the back streets and perhaps steal a bicycle to get him back home.

This plan was foiled at its inception as a staff car full of Germans rounded the corner ahead of him, almost catching him in its headlights.

He felt a falling sensation in the pit of his stomach. He was finished. In seconds they would see him and it would be all over.
 

Then he noticed a light to his left, and realized that the Cafe Mistral was open, in flagrant violation of the military governor’s laws. He made a reckless dash for the kitchen entrance, thinking that the workers were sure to be French. He would have to take his chances.

As he got closer he understood why the restaurant was still ablaze, and clearly in business. The rousing strains of
Deutschland Uber Alles
floated out into the warm night, offending his ears. The Germans were having a drinking party inside.

He splashed through a puddle outside the service entrance and yanked on the door, hoping that it wouldn’t be locked. It wasn’t. He had just crashed though it and slammed it behind him when he heard the staff car roar past in the street.

There were three people in the kitchen, and they all stared at him in amazement, transfixed by this midnight apparition. An old woman was slicing a long , rounded loaf of bread, and two teenaged boys were standing at the black iron stove, cooking.

“I’m running from the Germans,” Alain gasped. “Can you hide me?”

The two boys exchanged fearful glances. The woman put down her knife and peered at Alain more closely. Then without saying a word she added a block of butter, a month’s ration for a French family, to the bread platter and handed it to the shorter boy.

“Take this inside, Philippe,” she said.

Philippe gaped at her.

“You heard what I said,” she snapped. “Go in and pass it around, and stay there. Wait on them, keep yourself occupied, but don’t come back to the kitchen until I call you.”

Philippe didn’t look happy but he did as he was told.

“Claude,” the woman barked, and the other boy jumped.

“Take off your shirt and give it to me.”

“But if he gets arrested they’ll pull us in too, for helping him,” Claude protested in a fierce whisper.

“Coward!” she spat.

Claude, terrified and ashamed of himself at the same time, stripped off his outer shirt and handed her the garment with shaking hands.

“Give me your things and put this on,” she said to Alain.

Alain removed his damp black turtleneck and hat and slipped into the cotton shirt, rolling it to his elbows. The ache in his ankle receded, numbed into quiescence by the opiate of fear.

“Now, Claude, calm down,” the woman said, putting her hand on the boy’s shoulder. “You have to be strong. Take these extra pitchers inside to Philippe. Keep quiet and no one will know anything is happening, right?”

Claude nodded, licking his lips, and picked up the pitchers of beer.

He elbowed through the door carrying them, wearing only his Tshirt, looking as if he were headed for the guillotine.

Alain picked up the spatula Claude had abandoned and turned the omelet he’d been tending. The old lady took Alain’s discarded clothes and stuffed them in the bottom of a storage chest near the stove, tossing a variety of kitchen items on top of them. She moved with the speed and agility of a much younger person, but Alain didn’t have time to be amazed. She had just dropped the lid of the chest when the service door opened and two German soldiers entered the room.
 

Alain froze in place as the omelet stuck to the pan. He came out of his trance in time to save it from burning, but his impersonation of a cook left something to be desired. He moved the pan from the heat and waited tensely for the blow to fall.

One of the two soldiers was an officer, a major. He said curtly, in the bastardized French most of them used, “Do you both work here?”

The woman answered. “Yes, sir,” she said meekly. “I’m the cook and this boy is my helper.”

“Have you been here all night?”

“Yes, sir,” she responded piously, her aged face the quintessence of innocence.

Alain shoved his wet and muddy shoes further under the counter.

“You, boy,” the major said.

Alain looked up, his blood thrumming loudly in his veins. He was sweating so profusely the perspiration was running down his legs beneath his pants.

“Is this the only entrance to the kitchen?” the German asked.

Alain went blank. He had no idea.

Behind the Germans the old lady was nodding her head vigorously, her eyes wide.

“Yes, sir,” Alain said, swallowing.

The Major stalked through the kitchen to the dining room door and pushed through it, his companion following behind him.

Alain and the woman exchanged glances, inexpressibly relieved.
 

The group inside switched to a Bavarian hunting song. The two in the kitchen could hear the revelers banging their steins in unison on the tables.

“Swine,” the old lady said contemptuously. “When I cook for them I spit in their omelets.”

Alain grinned, delighted.

Claude returned from the dining room, as white as altar linen.

“They’ve gone,” he murmured. He looked ready to faint.

Alain threw his arms around the old woman’s neck and kissed her cheek. She disengaged herself, embarrassed, and went to a cabinet, taking out a bottle of sauterne. She poured two inches of the yellow liquid into a glass.

“It’s only cooking wine but it will have to do,” she said, handing Claude the drink. “Swallow it, you look like you need it.” She patted his cheek smartly. “Buck up, boy, it’s all over. We won this match for Team France.”

“Do you think they’ll come back?” Claude asked, looking at Alain.

“I doubt it. They’re out scurrying through the streets, turning over every rock,” Alain replied.

“You work with others?” Giselle asked Alain.

He hesitated, then nodded.

“If you need help again,” she said conspiratorially, “let me know. I work here and live in the rooms on the second floor.”

Alain smiled. She was thrilled by their adventure and her successful part in it, and she had proved herself trustworthy.

“Our name is Vipére,” Alain whispered into her ear, pressing her hand. “Remember us, grandmother. Our time will come.”

Giselle produced a key from the deep front pocket of her skirt. “Go out the back and up the stairs to my apartment. You can sleep there until curfew ends in the morning. After all this we can’t have you picked up now.”

Alain embraced her once more and then did as she suggested. He waited at the back door until he was sure the alley was deserted, and then climbed the rickety wooden staircase to Giselle’s door. Once inside, he collapsed, exhausted and emotionally spent. He stretched out on the overstuffed sofa in her tiny front room and fell asleep almost instantly.

In the morning he woke to find the bedroom door closed and assumed that Giselle was asleep behind it. He saw by his watch that it was late enough to go abroad in the streets. He was heading for the door when he found a note from his hostess. It lay on the rickety table in the old fashioned kitchenette, propped against a wicker breadbasket.

“Have breakfast,” it said. “Take anything you want.” And to it was pinned her ration card. “
Bon Pour un Repas
” (good for one meal) had unchecked spaces next to three of the sequential numbers. She had been saving up her allotments and was giving them to him.

Alain shook his head in wonderment. So many people wanted to help. Even old ladies were willing to sacrifice food itself for the cause. He put the card back and instead took a roll from the basket on the table. Stashing it inside his shirt, he went out into the bright morning and cantered down the stairs.

The soldiers moving in the street and the people hurrying to work didn’t give him a second glance. He blended in with the flow of humanity so well that he ceased to worry about the previous night. He walked past rows of shopkeepers opening for the day, rolling up their blinds and sweeping the walks in front of their stores. Alain jammed his hands in his pockets and strolled along, lost in his thoughts.

And his thoughts concerned Harris. Alain couldn’t dispute that the marine’s presence had been invaluable. He’d planned the raid on the factory with admirable efficiency and precision. He’d given Vipère all the information the Americans had from aerial photographs concerning the German installations in France. Before he left home Harris had memorized long lists of bases and targets, the location of transformer stations and oil storage tanks. Curel had written it all down, determined to pass it on where it would do the most good. Harris had also given the men a crash course in the undercover strategies he’d studied in preparation for the mission. They’d learned the best methods of sabotage and subterfuge, the use of weaponry and explosives, and were now well prepared to carry on without Harris when he left.

All of which didn’t make Alain like him any better. The guy was an arrogant, bossy loner, better at telling people what to do for ten hours than listening to anybody else for one minute. Alain knew that aloof, masterful act Harris adopted; he’d used it himself often enough with creditable success. The trouble was Alain had thought it only worked on sixteen-year-old girls and couldn’t believe that Laura was falling for it.

She looked at Harris like he was Lafayette. Why? Because he jumped out of planes? Big deal, a hard push and a long fall and you hit the ground on a roll. It didn’t sound like much to him. And he could tell that Harris loved Laura’s adulation. He didn’t do anything overt to indicate it, in fact he was very reticent where Laura was concerned, but Alain was sensitive to everything that involved his sister-in-law and he could tell.