Clash by Night (24 page)

“Why haven’t you divorced?” Lysette asked softly, amazed that he was telling her so much.

“Elise doesn’t want the scandal. I haven’t insisted, I imagine because it all seemed so pointless anyway. We couldn’t be any further apart than we are now.” He paused thoughtfully. “I suppose she has lovers,” he said, lifting one shoulder to indicate that he was no longer interested enough to care.
 

“How sad,” Lysette murmured shortly. She didn’t want to stem the flow of information, hungry as she was to know everything about him. He had spoken more about himself in the last ten minutes than he had in their whole previous acquaintance.

Becker studied the burning cigarette in his hand. “The worst part was the loss of the children. Elise put them in boarding school so she would be free to carry on her social life, but she still has influence. She has encouraged them to think of me as some sort of baffling eccentric whose bizarre ideas are more important to him than his name and his family.” He raised the cigarette to his lips and took a drag. “They treat me like a mental patient, or some distant, confused relative.”

Lysette put her hand on his arm.

He shook himself slightly. “Anyway, I was telling you why I survived to land here in your beautiful country. Elise did not want the father of her children killed. For their future, you see. She has great plans for them. People would forget, in time, that I was an undesirable but they would never forget a political murder. Also I have family, cousins and brothers-in-law, other relatives who contribute heavily to the party coffers. Some of these relations might get upset if I turned up dead and in spite of everything, the money must continue to flow. So sending me here seemed a tidy solution. No chance for me to cause trouble at home. No chance of, God forbid, my becoming a war hero like my father and then trading on my record to get people to listen to me. This exile was as good as my being dead, for their purposes.” He rubbed his neck. “But not quite dead enough, as it turns out. In light of recent events they have sent me a Gestapo watchdog who will be sniffing around from time to time to keep me on my toes.” He leaned forward and stubbed out his cigarette. “So I am despised at home and despised here.” He smiled slightly and touched her bare shoulder. “By all but you.”

“How can you stand it?”

His jaw hardened. “I am German. I love my country and I have to believe that Germany will survive this dark time, as she has survived others. In the meanwhile I cannot sully my father’s memory by refusing to do my duty. So I will remain here.”

“With no friend but me?” Lysette asked softly.

“None but you, liebchen,” he answered.

“I’m sorry you’ve been so lonely,” she whispered.
 

He pulled the sheet down to the bottom of the bed and moved over her, covering her body with his.

“Not anymore,” he said, kissing her throat, then her mouth. “Not anymore.”

Lysette put her arms around his neck and closed her eyes.

* * *

Fains-les-Sources did not boast a mortician, or anything like one. Dr. Fenelon, who had delivered Alain in the upstairs bedroom of the Duclos house nearly twenty years earlier, prepared his body for the wake. Laura and Brigitte were spared that grim task. The wounds were all to the torso, three straight through the heart, so his face was unmarked. He was dressed in his best (and only) suit, and laid out in the front room in a coffin made of native cedar donated by Deschamps, the carpenter. His blond hair, so unruly all his life, was combed neatly off his forehead. His long lashes lay serenely on pale cheeks, twin gold crescents. In death he looked like the angel he now was.

All day the villagers came and went. Everybody wanted to give something. The women brought food in covered dishes left to sit in the kitchen, and the men brought plans for revenge: whispered threats and vows to do more than blow up a factory next time. Curel took Laura aside to report that Alain’s death had brought a new rash of volunteers and contacts from other resistance organizations, alerted to Vipère’s existence by the execution. You see Alain, Laura said silently to the dead boy in the next room, already your sacrifice bears fruit.

No one asked for Henri. He was in the house on the upper floor, but his presence was ignored.

Late in the afternoon Laura stood in the hall looking into the parlor, where a group of black clad women flanking the coffin were saying the rosary aloud, led in their responses by the parish priest. A pair of young girls were crying, carried away by the drama of the scene as well as the real tragedy. And Brigitte stood in a corner, her hands folded before her, looking like a tightrope walker about to fall off the wire.

Laura went and took her hand, leading her out of the room. “You should have something to eat, Brigitte,” she said. “There’s plenty in the kitchen.”

Brigitte shook her head. “I’m not hungry.” She gazed at Laura out of Alain’s clear blue eyes. “I was just thinking about something I was told in catechism class when I was little. The nun said that when you die someone you loved who’s gone before you comes to greet you and show you the way. I hope Thierry did that for Alain, don’t you?”

“Yes, I do,” Laura said.

“He wouldn’t be afraid, you know, if Thierry were with him.”

“I know,” Laura responded, turning away. She walked back to the kitchen wondering how much more of this she could bear. How much more of it could anyone bear? She stared at the casseroles and pies, the stews and custards, and wanted to hurl them all at the walls.
 

It was several seconds before she realized that someone was knocking at the back door. This was unusual; people paying calls used the front one. She went to the screen and saw a man she didn’t know standing on the porch step. He wasn’t dressed for a wake either; he was wearing rough pants and a sweater and carried a small package in his hands.

“Are you Laura Duclos?” he said when he saw her.

“Yes.”

“I am Jean Fournier, cousin to Paul Curel.”

“Oh, you missed him,” Laura said, opening the screen. “He was here earlier but he’s gone home.”

The man glanced nervously over his shoulder, then leaned in through the door to say, “I’m not here for Curel. I have a message from the American. Harris.”

Laura put both hands to her mouth. “What is it?” she whispered.

“He is safe in London. He will be on leave from September 10th to the 17th at the Russell Hotel. Will you come?”

“Will I come to London?” Laura repeated in disbelief.

The man nodded vigorously. “Yes, yes. He will wait for you. Here is the money I was instructed to give you.”

He handed Laura an envelope full of American currency, worth one hundred francs to the dollar on the black market.
 

“I can’t take that,” Laura replied, stepping back from him, stunned.

“You must, you must; those are my orders,” Fornier insisted, obviously upset.

Laura realized that he wouldn’t know what to do if she refused him.
 

“All right,” she said, to calm him. She folded the envelope in half and put it in her skirt pocket, still dazed by his sudden arrival.

“Use the money for your passage,” Fornier concluded quickly. “Or keep it for Vipère if you can’t come. That is what Harris told me to say. Now I must get away. The Germans are questioning everyone.”

“Did you see him Calais?” Laura asked anxiously. “Was he all right?”

“I took him on my boat across the Channel to England,” Fournier replied. “It was there he gave me this money. He was uninjured, except for some burns from the fire.” He looked around furtively. “Adieu, madame. May God have mercy on Alain’s soul.”

Laura pressed his hand quickly in silent farewell and then went back inside the house. Fournier hurried off, taking the same route across the field toward Langtot’s barn that Harris had followed. Laura pulled out the envelope he’d given her and was clutching it in her hand when Brigitte entered the kitchen.

“I just went up to check on Papa,” she said. “He came to the door and asked me what all the people were doing downstairs. He called me Claire.”

Claire was Brigitte’s mother’s name. “What did you tell him?” Laura asked resignedly.

“I told him I was having a meeting for the church. He doesn’t know the difference, Laura.” She glanced at Laura’s hands. “What’s that?” she asked distractedly. Then she took a closer look. “Money?”

Laura met her eyes. “Yes.”

Brigitte peered at the package. “Reichsmarks?”

“American money.”

“Where did you get it?” Brigitte gasped.

“Dan Harris sent it.”

Brigitte glanced over her shoulder into the hall, which was empty. “The marine you were hiding?” she whispered.

“Yes. He wants me to meet him in London. He’s on leave there until the middle of the month.”

Brigitte sat down at the table and folded her hands. “Then what are you waiting for?” she said quietly.

Laura stared at her. “Brigitte! How can I? Alain is lying dead in the next room.”

“Is he going to resurrect if you stay?” Brigitte asked her bluntly.

“That’s an awful thing to say,” Laura responded, shocked.

“No, it’s not. If there’s one thing his death should teach you it’s to make the most of every moment you have,” Brigitte said flatly.

“And Thierry’s been gone less than a year,” Laura murmured, almost to herself.

“That only reinforces my point,” Brigitte said, sighing. “Laura, I’ve lost two brothers. You’ve lost a husband and a beloved friend. My father is so addled he’s as good as dead. How many more people will be destroyed before this is over? There’s no time to waste, don’t you see that?”

“I don’t know what to do,” Laura said anxiously.

“Yes, you do,” Brigitte said quietly. “You’re in love with him, aren’t you?”

Laura didn’t answer.

“Alain told me how close you and the American had become,” Brigitte said.

“It made Alain very unhappy,” Laura said miserably.

“That wasn’t your fault, Laura. He was confused, he had brotherly love and a crush and all sorts of feelings mixed up in his mind. You have to forget that and go on with your life.”

 
Laura smiled sadly. “When I saw him the night before he died he told me to try to be happy.”

Brigitte’s eyes filled with tears. “You see? This money is like a message from him telling you to go.” She pressed her fingers against her eyelids. “You didn’t answer my question. Are you in love with this American?”

Laura shook her head. “I don’t know. It’s very different from what I had with Thierry. That was easy and comfortable and secure. This is...risky and scary but...powerful.” She gestured helplessly. “I can’t even describe it.”

“But you still want to go.”

“I have to open school next week,” Laura said feebly.

Brigitte made a disgusted sound. “Lysette can handle it until you get back. Stop being such a coward.”

Laura stared at her. She would not have expected the usually tolerant Brigitte to speak with such vehemence. The younger woman was changing, maturing, before her eyes.

“But I’d feel like I was running out and leaving you to deal with all this...” she gestured expansively, “...alone.”
 

“It will all still be here when you get back,” Brigitte said darkly. “Nothing would improve if you stayed.”

“But what about Henri? He gets worse every day.”

Brigitte shrugged. “He can’t face what he did. Could you?”

“I’m afraid he might get...violent.”

Brigitte sighed and shook her head. “No. I’ve seen people like him in my training. He just wants to retreat into his past and go back to a better, happier time. I’m sure he’s harmless.”

One of the village women appeared in the door and asked them to come inside to say goodbye to Father Deslourdes. Laura told her to wait a moment and then sat across from Brigitte when the woman left.

“Are you certain about this, Brigitte?” Laura asked quietly.

Brigitte reached across the table and took her hand. “Go to him, Laura. Go to your marine. You can take the train to Calais and the ferry across the Channel. You have American papers so the Germans can’t stop you from traveling.”

“I’ll have to get a pass.”

“Go to see Becker in the morning,” Brigitte said.

“I will,” Laura answered, and stood to thank Father Deslourdes for his trouble.
 

Chapter 8

Kurt Hesse presented himself before Becker’s desk and waited until the Colonel looked up at him before he spoke.

“Madame Duclos to see you, sir.”

Becker dropped the pen he’d been holding and fixed his aide with a gimlet stare.

“She wants a travel pass,” Hesse volunteered bravely.

“A travel pass,” Becker repeated. Christ, what now. The woman was a bigger cross than Kleinschmitt.

“Yes, sir.”

“Where is she going? Far, I hope?”

“I don’t know, sir,” Hesse replied stoically.

Becker sighed. “Send her in.”