As Time Goes By (2 page)

Her letter was in his breast pocket. Sam had given it
to him in the cafe, before he had left for the airport
and his fatal encounter with Major Strasser. It had been
hidden in Sam's piano, the same place Rick himself
had hidden the stolen letters of transit that enabled
Laszlo and Ilsa to get away.

My dearest Richard,
   

If you are reading this letter, it means that I
have escaped with Victor.

I thought that after Paris I should never have to
part from you this way again. Yet here we are,
having to say good-bye twice, once with our lips
and once more with our hearts.

You must believe me when I tell you that when
we met I thought Victor was dead. We said no
questions, and I never questioned the fact that I
was free to love you. Some women search all their
lives for a man to love. I have found two.

As I write these words, I don't know what will
happen tonight at the airport. Like the last time we
parted, I cannot be sure that we shall meet again.
But unlike the last time, I can hope.

In Lisbon, we shall stay at the Hotel Aviz. After
that, only God knows. Please come if you can. If
not for my sake, then for Victor's. We both need
you.

Ilsa—

The big car sailed through the damp night like
an ocean liner on a calm sea, picking up speed despite
the poor roadway. Sam piloted the vehicle expertly, the way he played the piano. He sensed rather than saw the
turnoffs, reading them the way a blind man read
Braille. They were well away from the city now.

"Turn on the radio, will you, Sacha?" asked Rick.
He was tired of talking, and before they lost the signal
he wanted to hear some music. Maybe something from Benny Goodman and his band. He was also wondering
whether the news of Major Strasser's death had been
broadcast yet.

"Sure, boss," said Sacha. He shot out one oversize
hand and began worrying the radio dial until he man
aged to find a station. "Blah blah blah is all that's on."

"Then turn the blah blah blah up so we can at least
hear it," Rick ordered. After all his time in Casablanca and in Paris, his French was still only passable, and
sometimes he had trouble understanding on the tele
phone or over the radio. If anything important was
going on, Louis would tell nun soon enough. Or Sam,
who learned languages the way he learned the piano,
by ear.

Renault was about to say something when something
caught his attention. "Quiet!" he shouted in a tone that shocked everybody into silence.

Sacha fiddled with the volume, and an excited voice suddenly filled the car. Even Rick knew what the an
nouncer was saying. He just didn't want to believe it.

In far-off Hawaii, the Japanese had just bombed
Pearl Harbor.

"Boss, we got trouble," Sam said from the front seat.

"I know that," snapped Rick, trying to listen to the radio. He caught Sam's gaze in the rearview mirror.

"I mean we got company," Sam explained calmly,
slamming the car into high gear.

Rick twisted in his seat. A pair of yellow headlamps
was gaining on them.

The silence was broken by the unmistakable sound
of automatic weapons. A bullet
ping
ed off the trunk of
the Buick.

"Gimme a clip, Sacha," Rick said.

"Right here, boss," said the Russian, happy at last.

Rick slammed it into his Colt .45. He had always
wanted to see if a phaeton with a 141-horsepower engine could outrun a Mercedes-Benz, and now he was
about to find out.

C
HAPTER
T
WO

Ilsa Lund turned to face her husband as their plane
ascended into the night sky. They flew directly over the city at first, then banked steeply out toward the sea. Her
last view of Casablanca was of Rick's place. Illumi
nated only by the street lamps, it looked silent and for
lorn.

Traces of her tears remained on her cheeks. She
didn't want to wipe them away. They were all she had
left. "Everything's happened so fast," she murmured. Too fast. The surprise, the shock, the excitement, the
danger, and now the relief—relief so tinged with sadness and regret.

"I didn't know he would be in Casablanca!" she
whispered, more to herself than to Victor. "How could I have? What fate led us to him—to him, who had the
letters of transit! I know you're upset about what hap
pened in Paris between Rick and me, but please try not
to be. Didn't everything work out for the best? Where
would we be without those letters? What would we
have done?"

She clutched his arm and imagined that the beating
of her heart could be heard over the drone of the air
plane's engines. "Oh, Victor," she said, "don't you
see? I thought you were dead, and I thought my life
was over, too. I was lonely. I had nothing, not even
hope. Oh, I don't know. I don't know anything any
more!" She started to cry again, but she was not sure why or for whom. She dabbed at her eyes with her
handkerchief as the plane bumped its way through the
clouds.

"Then I learned that you were alive, and how much you needed me to help you in your struggle," she said,
regaining control. "You could have abandoned me a
dozen times in the past eighteen months—in Lille,
when I was having trouble with the authorities, in Mar
seille, when I was sick for two weeks and you nursed
me back to health—and in Casablanca, when you
might have purchased one of those letters and fled. But
you didn't. Now I understand why you have kept our marriage a secret even from our friends, so that the
Gestapo would never suspect that I was your wife."

She managed to look over at Victor, but he was star
ing straight ahead again, as if lost in thought. She won
dered, not for the first time, if he had heard a single
word she had said. He had so much on his mind. "Tell
me . . . tell me you're not too angry with me," she
concluded.

He reached over and patted her arm affectionately
and a little distractedly. "Anger and jealousy are two
emotions I choose to live without," he said. "Besides,
how could I ever be angry with you when there is so
much important work ahead?"

"Yes, Victor," replied Ilsa. Did he not understand
what she was trying to say, or was it impossible for him? "How could you?"

For a while they sat together in silence. If the other
passengers on the plane had noticed anything out of the
ordinary about the handsome couple, they did not let
their curiosity show. In wartime Europe, keeping one's curiosity private was always wise.

Victor leaned his head close to Ilsa's. "When we get
to Lisbon, my dear, I want you to do exactly as I tell
you."

"When have I ever not?" asked Ilsa, but Victor was
still talking.

"The slightest hesitation could be fatal for both of
us. Until now, I've been unable to tell you very much
about my mission." His voice softened a bit. "I
couldn't breathe a word of it to anyone back in Casa
blanca—not even you. I'm sure you understand."

"I'm sure I do," replied Ilsa.

The plane climbed above the Atlantic, buffeted by the winds. Once or twice Ilsa felt her stomach lurch,
but Victor remained imperturbable. He had faced far worse dangers than a simple airplane trip, she knew,
and she envied him his calm certitude. She wondered
if that was an emotion she would ever experience for
herself.

"Even at this moment, I cannot confide in you the
full details of our plan," Victor went on. "Indeed, I myself do not know them fully yet."

Ilsa interrupted him by placing her hand on his forearm. He winced, and then she remembered the wound
he had suffered back in Casablanca, when the police
broke up the Underground meeting just before his ar
rest. "It's very dangerous, isn't it?" she asked.

"More dangerous than anything I've ever done,"
said Victor. "But don't worry, everything will work
out. Our cause is just and theirs is not, and in the end we shall win. When even a man as blind to the fate of
nations as Richard Blaine can see the difference be
tween us and the Germans, the virtue of our cause must
be clear to everyone."

"What do you mean, Victor?"

Laszlo gave his wife a small smile. "I mean simply that his action in giving us the transit letters was the
mark of a man who has stopped running from himself.
Who has finally realized, as you and I did long ago,
that there are far more important things in this life than
oneself or one's own happiness. Why do you suppose
he did what he did back there? Why did he give us the
letters of transit, when he might have kept them for
himself?"

"I'm sure I don't know," replied Ilsa. Her mind
flashed back to the last time she had seen Rick alone,
in his apartment above the cafe last night. She had been
ready to sleep with him or shoot him, whatever it took
to get the letters of transit that were her husband's pass
port to freedom. She had not shot him.

"When he might have turned me over to Major Stras
ser as casually as swatting a fly," continued Victor.
"When"—his face darkened a bit—"he might have
tried to take you away with him."

"Why, Victor?" breathed Ilsa.

"Because your saloon keeper has finally become a
man, and declared his willingness to join us in our
fight," said her husband. "He knew that I must escape
Casablanca, and he knew I needed you to come with
me. Whatever his true feelings for you might be, they
were of no moment. Because the cause is all."

Their plane landed in Lisbon without incident. Victor and Ilsa passed through the border formalities easily. They took their rooms in the Hotel Aviz without
question. They slept together that night without pas
sion.

The next morning Ilsa was startled to wakefulness
by a soft knock at the door. Two years ago she never
would have noticed it, not so softly and not so far away.
Since 1939 no one in occupied Europe had slept well
or soundly. Instinctively she reached for her husband, but he was not there. Up and dressed, he was just closing the bedroom door behind him.

Outside she could hear voices. They were raised
from time to time, but not in anger. In her nightgown
she padded across the bed chamber and tried the door,
but it was locked. Victor had locked it from the outside.
For her safety? Or for his?

She bent down to the keyhole. The room beyond was
still plunged in the darkness of the coming winter solstice. Listening intently, she could just make out some
of the words. To judge from the differing voices, there
were two other men in the front room with her hus
band.

".. . changes everything . ..," Victor was saying.

"... British Intelligence ...," said someone else.

".. . danger
...
no chance . . . alive . ..," said the
second stranger.
      

"...der Henker..."
          

"...Prague..."
     

"As soon as possible!" Victor said, putting an end
to the discussion.

She heard the front door shut softly. She jumped
back into bed when she heard the turn of the key in the
bedroom door.
       

"Is that you, Victor?" She feigned sleepiness.

"Yes, my dear," he said.

She wiped some imaginary sand out of her eyes.
"Are you up so soon?"

"I went for an early morning stroll," said Laszlo.
"You can't believe how good it feels to breathe free air
once more. After Mauthausen, I never thought I'd have
the chance again."

Ilsa propped herself up slowly, yawned, and
stretched. "I can only imagine how it must feel," she
said.

"Of course you can." He stroked her hair lightly,
absentmindedly. "There has been some extraordinary
news, my dear. The Japanese have attacked the Ameri
cans at Pearl Harbor in Hawaii."

Ilsa sat bolt upright; no need to feign sleepiness now.
"What?" she exclaimed.

"It happened yesterday, a surprise attack on the U.S.
Navy at Pearl Harbor near Honolulu. Most of the ships
were destroyed in the harbor, and many men were
killed. President Roosevelt has asked Congress for a
declaration of war on Japan." Victor seemed almost
joyful. "Now the Americans will have to join in our
struggle."

He got up and walked around the room excitedly.
"Don't you see-, Ilsa? This is what we have hoped for.
This is what I hoped for during all those long months
in the camps, when it seemed that no one would come
to our aid. The English look beaten. The Russians are
reeling on three fronts. But this changes everything! Everything!"

Impulsively he swept his wife up in his arms.

"With the Americans on our side, we cannot lose!
Oh, we won't be victorious right away; it will take
years to roll back the Germans, destroy their armies,
and free Europe once more. But the die is cast now,
and there is no turning back. There are no Rick Blaines
in America anymore, men who hide behind their cow
ardice and call it neutrality. It will take time, but from
this moment on, Germany is finished."

As abruptly as he had embraced her, he released
her. "We must make haste—more haste than ever.
Quickly!" He found her suitcase and threw it on the bed. "The taxi is downstairs, and the plane leaves in
less than an hour."

Ilsa rose quickly and began to pack. "I have always wanted to see New York," she said. "Now that the
Americans are on our side—"

"There is no longer any point in going to America,"
Victor said. His bags were already packed, and he
stood in the doorway impatiently. He was barely able to contain his excitement. "The time for speech mak
ing and fund-raising is over, thank God. Now the time
for action is at hand!"

"Then where are we going?" asked Ilsa.

"To the headquarters of the Czech government-in-exile since the fall of France," he said as he closed the
door behind them. "To London."

"London!" exclaimed Ilsa. That was where King
Haakon lived now, along with the Norwegian government-in-exile, ever since Vidkun Quisling and his Nas-jonal Samling, aided by some traitorous army officers,
helped the Germans to occupy their homeland.

That was where her mother was.

Her thoughts raced back to Rick as Victor settled
their account. She had asked him to follow, and now
she must tell him where. Impulsively she scribbled un
observed a private note for Mr. Richard Blaine and left
it with the chief reservations clerk, the one who had looked at her so appreciatively when they'd checked
in the night before. The note was brief and to the
point. "To London." "British Intelligence."
"Der Hen
ker(?)."
"Danger." "Prague." And "Come quickly."
It was signed simply, "I."