Dragonfly, page 15
“I’m sure it will, Herr Major General,” Brad said.
“Good. Now show me some of your flies, if you please.”
“Of course,” Barnard Wagner said, inviting the general to step through the hedge to his tackle box, and thought: Fly into my mouth, said the dragonfly to the moth.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Jules Garnier had made arrangements for Chris to be admitted that Sunday morning into the wing of the Sorbonne allocated for the sons of the Nazi and Vichy elite. Nazi flags and posters showing Hitler’s picture and stating the objectives of the curriculum were hung as Jules had described, further increasing the atmosphere of evil Chris felt the moment he unlocked the door and walked into the chill of a school closed on a cold fall weekend. Physical education instructor Claus Bauer had wanted to acquaint himself with its sports equipment and facilities and to organize his office before meeting his classes the next day. The required reading texts, lesson plans, class roster, and desk materials that Jules had promised would be waiting for him were on his desk. He found that his office was no more than a partitioned area situated between two others obviously thrown together to accommodate additional staff. The makeshift units were windowless and the walls paper-thin. No privacy, then, and no handy exit. Chris sighed.
He had been at his desk an hour when a man filled the open door of his cubicle. “You must be the new math and field sports instructor,” he said.
“I am,” Chris responded, rising, and held out his right hand. “Claus Bauer. And you must be?” He did not have to ask the man’s name. He fit the description Jules Garnier had given: shaved head, small, merciless eyes, thick, brutish body inevitably doomed to flab in time.
The man noted the missing thumb of Chris’s hand with a curl of his lip. “Louis Mueller, director of the sports program of the academy,” he said in German, giving Chris’s four fingers a quick, crushing squeeze. “I assume you were informed that classes start promptly at seven o’clock around here. Instructors are to be at their posts thirty minutes after morning curfew.” The implication was that the early reporting time was out of the realm of Chris’s coaching experience. “I do not tolerate tardiness.”
“Of course not,” Chris said equably.
“Also, you need to know that we do not coddle our students. We push them to their physical limits. Any slack from that duty by one of my instructors, and I have the authority to dismiss him and report him to my superiors. Is that understood?”
Chris acquiesced with an understanding nod. “Perfectly.”
Mueller’s glance fell to Chris’s thumbless right hand. “I must tell you frankly, Herr Bauer, that I was surprised, if not shocked, that with your handicap, you were even considered for a position here.”
Chris sat back down. “I have never found it to be a handicap, Herr Mueller.”
“It better not be.”
It was as Jules Garnier had warned him. Claus Bauer had been put on notice. Louis Mueller would be watching his new physical education instructor. The slightest slipup, and he would be out.
“Very well, then,” the man said when Chris did not respond. “Now I see that you have your students’ roster on your desk. I must point out to you the names of several boys in the school that you must give…special attention to.” Louis Mueller glanced at him sharply. “You do know what I mean?”
“I am afraid that I must ask for enlightenment.”
The director sighed as if he should have expected such ignorance from the likes of his new instructor. With exaggerated patience, he explained, “As I have said and apparently must repeat, we do not tolerate slack from the students for any reason. There are no allowances made for those who are undersized and immature for their ages. You have three of those sort assigned to your class.” He came around the desk to run a sausage-sized finger down the student roster and jabbed at three names. “Him, him, and him,” he said. “You are to see that they measure up to the demands of the curriculum. If they do not, they will be severely disciplined. A sheet is attached to the roster that describes the forms of correction allowed, which you will administer.”
Chris turned the page to read a list of approved methods to “correct” a student’s failure to live up to the physical expectations decreed by Adolf Hitler. The methods were no less than torture. To prevent telltale bruising, some of the acceptable measures suggested were water dunking, beatings with cotton sacks filled with potatoes, and requiring a student to stand on his toes with his arms outstretched for an unendurable length of time.
“I’m sure these forms of persuasion for the boys to strive harder are most effective,” Chris commented approvingly, “but I see here that these boys are the sons of high-ranking Vichy officials and German officers. Aren’t you afraid of repercussions from their fathers for the harsh treatment of their children?” Chris could not resist referring to the students’ age. “This boy, Wilhelm March, for instance”—he pointed to the name—“is the only child of the chief of the Abwehr in France. I would think the general would not look favorably upon what he might consider abuse to his son.”
Louis Mueller snorted. “You are to have no fear of the consequences for doing your job. The boys know not to carry tales to their fathers. They know what will happen to them if they do.”
“The boys or their fathers?”
“The boys, but the fathers, as well.”
“And that is?”
“Any interference from the fathers and they will be reported to Berlin as unsupportive of the Führer’s mandated curriculum whose disciplines are designed to form their sons into ideal German males. That would not be good for their careers, and the boys know it. In trouble at school, in trouble at home.”
“Yes, of course, and there is also the boy’s affection and respect for his father that would prevent him from saying anything about his mistreatment that would jeopardize the man’s career,” Chris said smoothly, his expression full of understanding.
The director blinked as if Chris had spoken in a foreign language. “Well, yes, I suppose there is that benefit as well, so you needn’t worry about any complaint of…mishandling.”
“That is good to know. I am most relieved.”
Louis Mueller continued to eye his new physical education instructor warily. Chris returned a benign gaze. “Any other information of which I should be apprised?” he asked.
The director emitted another testy sigh. “I had hoped that Herr Garnier had fully briefed you on the rest of what we do here, but since he did not do his job, you will have to figure it out on your own, and immediately. Remember that you are on trial here, Herr Bauer. Your position is in no way secure. I have very strict expectations from members of my department. One deviation from them, and you will be on your way to the Russian front, from which you have been exempted because of your appointment here, I understand. I can assure you that the Wehrmacht will have no issue with your infirmity. Have I made myself clear?”
“Most abundantly, but have no fear, Herr Mueller. I will not disappoint you,” Chris said cheerfully.
“Oh, I have no fear, Herr Bauer. Fear should be your concern. Now I will leave you to go and enjoy what is left of my Sunday.” Louis stuck out a stiff arm. “Heil Hitler!”
Chris stood and repeated the salute. “Heil Hitler!”
The director drew back from the proximity of Chris’s missing thumb, and said, “Make sure to lock up when you leave and remember to be on time in the morning.”
“Jawohl, Herr Mueller!”
Chris heard the heavy tread of the director’s footsteps heading for the exit and a minute later the slam of the outer door. Louis Mueller had made a special trip to the school this frosty Sunday morning to deliver his warning. Chris now knew exactly who he was dealing with—no surprise there. The surprise would be for the loathsome Herr Louis Mueller when he learned exactly who he was dealing with in Herr Claus Bauer.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
At six o’clock that same Sunday morning, his landlady’s soft knock on his door roused Bucky from a deep sleep that not even the loud and incessant ringing of the steeple bells from the church on the corner had pierced. He had fallen into bed at two, fully clothed, craving sleep after having spent much of the night in his landlady’s parlor playing the French card game Barbu. Bucky had joined the game with his fellow French boarders to divert the unanswered questions thrashing about in his head after Madame Dupree handed him a note upon his return from La Petite Madeleine. “I have spoken with Uncle Emille about a visit,” Aunt Claire had written. “Come for tea at four o’clock next Sunday.”
Bucky had read the note in a state of shock. Holy Moses! Aunt Claire had made contact with his father! He wanted to see him! “Who brought the note, Madame Dupree?” he had asked.
“An elderly gentleman. He arrived on a bicycle.”
His aunt’s old butler, Bucky guessed. He had suddenly felt giddy. After all these years, he was finally to meet his father!
“Are you all right, Monsieur Beaulieu?”
“Absolument!” he said. He had read the note again. When Aunt Claire had told him about his son, what had been the reaction of the man whose color and shape of eyes he had inherited? A price was on the head of Nicholas Cravois. Would it be too dangerous for him to show himself in Paris? Could Bucky be sure that Aunt Claire had even told him of his son’s existence? Her wording might have meant that his father had agreed to discuss a visit with someone. Bucky had learned from Aunt Claire that his father was still unmarried. Mistresses, yes, but no children by them that she knew of. Samuel Barton was his only legitimate child. Had his aunt told him how much his son wished to meet him—wanted to get to know him?
Somehow he had to curb his impatience until tomorrow at four o’clock. Would his father be waiting for him in her parlor? Or would he have decided that he couldn’t possibly risk seeing him? Bucky had felt a crushing squeeze of his heart. Tomorrows in France were so uncertain. If he missed this chance to see his birth father, the opportunity might never come again.
“Monsieur Beaulieu, it is Madame Dupree. You must get up—now!” his landlady’s hushed voice implored urgently through his bedroom door.
Groggily, Bucky staggered to open it. “It’s all right, Madame Dupree. I didn’t intend to go down for breakfast.”
“It is not about breakfast, monsieur,” she said, pushing her way in, her glance quickly taking in his disheveled shirt and pants. “I have news. I am informing you first in case you must do…whatever you must do. We are about to receive new occupants.”
Bucky came alert. “Who?”
His landlady kept her voice low. “Three of my tenants were quietly evicted before daybreak and their rooms requisitioned as quarters for three members of the Abwehr. Bella is cleaning them now. The men will be arriving this morning. I came to warn you so that you can make sure your papers are in order and that nothing compromising can be found in your room. The pigs will probably have it searched for contraband.” Indignation dissolved into stricken sadness. “Esme, Dashiell, and Farrin have been with me for years. They are old. Winter is coming. Where will they go? Where will they live?”
Bucky was helpless to answer. There was also another concern so obvious as not to merit mention. In her years of cooperation with the Allied intelligence services, the enemy had been out of sight and far removed from Madame Dupree’s activities. Now they had taken residence under her roof, which put her in danger of discovery. If Bucky was discovered, she would be taken, too.
Madame Gabrielle Dupree was a facilitator for the OSS. Her role did not involve clandestine activities. She offered assistance by making her pension de famille, or boardinghouse, available as a trusted abode for the agency’s covert operatives. She had come to Alistair’s attention in early June 1942, when he learned that her boardinghouse had offered sanctuary to several RAF pilots shot down close to Paris during a bombing raid. Her husband was a casualty of the First World War and her son a victim of the Second, both at the hands of the Germans. Gabrielle Dupree did not loudly parade the depth of her hatred for “the pigs in gray” but quietly put her grief and rage to effective use by holding vacant a few rooms to rent to Allied agents requiring walls without ears.
Booted footsteps and voices speaking imperiously in German drifted up from downstairs. Madame Dupree’s face whitened. “Oh, my God. They’re here,” she said.
Bucky laid a hand on her shoulder. “Hold tight to your courage, Madame Dupree. You are a brave and resourceful woman. You will handle this.”
She straightened her shoulders. “Yes, I will,” she said. “I was told they’ll want to interview the residents. I’m to ring the dinner bell to summon everyone downstairs. Meanwhile I’d get into pajamas, if I were you. The pigs might wonder what you’ve been up to.”
The dinner bell rang fifteen minutes later. Bucky had changed out of street clothes and further tousled his hair. His aunt’s note was now ashes mixed with the smoked remains from the bowl of his French briar. His umbrella with its concealed stiletto was tucked in his closet, his pencil fuse lay inconspicuously among other writing materials in his desk drawer, and his L pill was hidden in his belt buckle. His other clandestine materials were in his office at the consulting firm where he’d expected they most likely would be needed. He had not anticipated this turn of events.
When Bucky descended the stairs in robe, pajamas, and house slippers, he found the other three tenants in similar attire and the members of the house staff forming a line. The new boarders—a captain, a first lieutenant, and a sergeant holding a clipboard—were in full Wehrmacht uniform. Bucky made a quick assessment. The captain appeared pleasant enough. He had just heard him compliment Madame Dupree’s collection of Lalique figurines, but the mannerly, courteous ones could be the worst kind. The lieutenant, tall, slim, and straight-backed, looked fresh out of the Prussian Military Academy, Hitler’s trolling ground for the elite of the elite. By contrast the sergeant with the clipboard was lacking the polish and presence of his superiors. His uniform, designed for the physique of the typically fit German soldier, was ill suited for his pudgy frame, a drawback to his military appearance that his slicked-down Hitler haircut and thin mustache failed to offset.
Also, Bucky couldn’t say why he sensed that, aside from the difference in their ranks, the sergeant was not held in high esteem by his superiors.
The captain turned to Madame Dupree, standing nervously nearby, and addressed her in impeccable French. “Is this everyone?”
“Oui, Capitaine,” she said. “Monsieur Beaulieu is the last one.”
“Splendid.” He smiled and greeted the group in French with a small bow. “Messieurs and mesdames, I will ask that you kindly turn over your papers to me and give your names, room numbers, duties, and places of employment to my lieutenant, who will translate them for the sergeant to write down. But first, allow me to introduce myself. I am Captain Edmund Achterberg, and these are Oberleutnant Fredrik Dahl and Unterfeldwebel Dirk Drechsler.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
That same Sunday, to her chagrin, Victoria was summoned early on her day of rest to report to the L’Ecole d’Escrime Français. It happened that she was already up, having planned to catch the metro deeper into the Latin Quarter to interview a woman who might have knowledge of her fiancé’s fate. Victoria was following the only lead her brother had been able to give her. Though no one had seen Ralph’s parachute after he was shot down over Gennevilliers, a municipality about nine miles northwest of the center of Paris, a report suggested that several pilots had made it to a boardinghouse in the Latin Quarter whose proprietor, Madame Gabrielle Dupree, had offered shelter and safety. The failure of the RAF bombing raid over the aircraft engine factory in May was still being gleefully recounted by her German students. The plant had hardly been damaged, but thirty-four French civilians were killed and 167 injured. The citizens of Gennevilliers, therefore, had not been inclined to help downed Allied airmen. Victoria had managed to locate the address of the boardinghouse and was hoping to meet Madame Dupree to learn if one of the surviving airmen was Ralph DuPont.
“I am sorry, Mademoiselle Colbert, but you were specifically requested,” Jacques Vogel, the school’s director and fencing master, apologized over the phone at the registration desk of Victoria’s lodging, a small residential hotel.
“Who asked for me?”
A pause. “Derrick Albrecht. You may have heard of him?”
“Should I have?”
“Perhaps. In the thirties, he was Germany’s top fencing champion in foil.”
Vaguely, the name emerged from the list of international fencing stars Victoria had read about. “What does he want with me?”
“He requires a fencing bout today to stay in form and wishes to set up a regular schedule with you.”
“Why not with you? You’re the best.”
“He has heard of you and…feels that you will provide a suitable challenge.” It went unsaid that Victoria had no choice in the matter.
Victoria sighed and closed her eyes. Oh, damn! She got the picture. The man must be important for her employer, the OSS facilitator responsible for her insertion into L’Ecole d’Escrime Français, to yank her out of bed on Sunday when the school was closed. She figured he was some pompous high Nazi official who’d heard of the attractive foil instructor and thought to make a little time with her when Monsieur Vogel, certified in all three weapons of fencing—a prévôt d’armes—was perfectly “suitable” to serve as his bout partner.
“Well, what do you know about him?” she asked. “What’s he doing in France? I need to know who I am dealing with.”
