Clash by Night (14 page)

Harris wanted Laura, as much as he tried not to show it. And in his subtle, accomplished way he was moving in on her. Alain saw the slow, lazy smile the marine used to seal the two Americans off from the rest of the group. Harris was isolating Laura with the force of his charm as surely as a border collie cut the prize lamb from the rest of the flock. And he was doing it with the unconcerned ease of a pro.
 

Alain didn’t think the marine’s casual posture was as natural as it appeared. He was putting on a show for Laura. He stood around smoking cigarettes down to the stub like Humphrey Bogart in the American films, talking through a drifting haze in that husky, intense voice, impressing everybody with what a rough, tough self contained hero he was. Everybody except Alain.

The boy scuffed the toe of a shoe in the verge along the road to Fains, pulling out Giselle’s roll. He summarily dismissed the irksome subject of the American pilot as he took a big bite and surveyed the passing traffic, hoping to hitch a ride. About halfway home he saw a local farmer going by and jumped into the back of his wagon. He reached the Duclos house just as Laura was making breakfast with Brigitte.

Laura turned from the stove as he came through the back door, almost dropping the fork she held.

“You’re back,” she gasped, running to greet him. “I was sure they’d grabbed you.”

Alain shook his head. “I’m all right.”

“What happened?” Laura asked.
 

He winked. “We got it.”
 

Laura laughed and hugged him.

“Got what?” Brigitte asked from her seat at the table, looking from one to the other.
 

Laura and Alain exchanged glances.

“What are you doing home?” Alain asked his sister.

“I’m due in for the afternoon shift,” Brigitte said. “What’s going on?”

“We might as well tell her,” Laura said in a low tone. “She’ll have to know sooner or later.”

Alain said nothing.

“Alain,” Laura persisted.

“All right,” he said, turning away and surveying what Laura had been about to put in the pan. “Bacon?” he said in surprise.

“Pierre cured it himself last year and they didn’t know about it,” Laura explained. The Germans had “requisitioned” most of the best provender but this rasher had escaped their notice.

“I’m waiting,” Brigitte said patiently. She had more than an inkling of what she was about to hear.

“We’ve got an American in Pierre’s barn,” Laura said baldly. “He’s a marine, we’re hiding him.”

“An American marine?” Brigitte whispered. This was even worse than she had imagined. “Why?”

“He came to help us blow up the glass plant,” Alain said. “The Germans are converting it to manufacture munitions and we’re going to destroy it before they can use it.”

Brigitte’s expression reflected her opinion of this plan. “Oh, my God,” she breathed, standing up. “Have you both gone crazy?”

Alain glared at her, his eyes hostile. “No, we haven’t,” he said coldly, “but maybe you have.”

Brigitte stared back at him and Laura looked on with concern, unsure of what he was about to say.

“My sources tell me that you have a new friend,” Alain said quietly to his sister.

Brigitte didn’t move.

Alain nodded. “You know who I mean. That pretty German corporal, Becker’s boy—Hesse , am I right?”

Laura turned back to the stove. So that was it.

“Your ‘sources,’” Brigitte said evenly, obviously trying to keep her temper, “your spies, you mean. Who? Gaston, that clerk in the supply room at the hospital? Or Reneau, that annoyance of an orderly? He’s just jealous because...” she stopped abruptly.

“Yes,” Alain said quickly, springing the trap. “Because you prefer that boche to him! And anybody else, the way I hear it.”

“You have no right to set people on me, have them follow me around!” Brigitte flared.
 

“I have to keep an eye on my sister,” Alain said smoothly. “And you’ve been making such a spectacle of yourself no one had to bother following you around. From the information I’m getting you seem to need a keeper.”
 

“So you have to watch everyone I speak to?” Brigitte demanded.

“That boche is your enemy!” Alain shouted, slamming his palm to the table. “Your enemy, and mine.”

“Everyone is your enemy these days!” Brigitte responded hotly. “Everyone but your sneaky pack of watchdogs.”

“Alain,” Laura said in a cautionary tone. This was not the way to handle the situation.

“Stay out of this,” he said curtly to Laura. He advanced on Brigitte.

“What is it?” he demanded. “His lovely yellow curls? His handsome uniform? Do they make you forget who he is?”

“I remember who he is,” she murmured. “Better than you know.”

“How sweet,” Alain said sarcastically. “Trouble in paradise? I hope?”

“You’re not funny, Alain,” Brigitte said, her eyes filling with tears.

Laura interposed her body between Alain’s and Brigitte’s.
 

“Leave her alone,” she said firmly to the boy.

“Oh, fine,” Alain said, throwing up his hands. “You take her part. First my father and now my sister. I ought to just open a little
gasthof
here where the boche can stop by and put up their feet, have some schnapps, a bite to eat. We could serve
wiener schnitzel
and
sauerbraten
,
sachertorte
for dessert, make them feel right at home. And my beloved sister could ply her trade, take them upstairs for some additional, physical refreshment...”`

Laura slapped him, and Brigitte sobbed aloud.

Alain put his hand to his face, his eyes blazing.

“Are you on her side?” he demanded, turning red with rage.
 

“Let’s simply say that I’m not on yours,” Laura retorted coolly. “This kind of scene never solves anything.”

“She’s consorting with a German!” Alain accused, pointing his finger at Brigitte.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Laura snapped. “She’s not ‘consorting’ with anybody.” She turned to Brigitte. “Exactly what has Alain heard?” she asked the younger girl.

“I don’t know what he’s heard, but I can tell you what happened. I just talked to Kurt a few times and...”

“Kurt, is it?” Alain interjected. “On a first name basis already? Charming.”

“Will you be quiet?” Brigitte said to her brother. “Nothing has happened between him and me.”

“Not yet,” Alain rejoined darkly. Then he surveyed his sister with a calculating eye and added, “Or are you smarter than I think?”

“What do you mean?” Brigitte asked him nervously.

“If he likes you, he might talk, and some of that information could be very useful to us...” Alain said softly, his tone heavy with implication.

Brigitte’s delicate jaw line hardened. “I won’t do that.”

“Oh, forgive me,” Alain said with exaggerated contrition. “Far be it from me to suggest that you serve your country by compromising your high moral principles.”

“Kurt’s only a corporal, he doesn’t know anything,” Brigitte said defensively.

“He’s Becker’s aide!” Alain countered. “He’s in the commandant’s office all the time, has access to all the orders and communiqués. Becker trusts him or he wouldn’t keep him on the job.”

“He’d never tell me anything important.”

“He might let something slip if you pay attention to every word he says. And that shouldn’t be too hard. I’m told he follows you around like a rabbit who’s caught the scent.”

“You’re disgusting,” Brigitte announced, turning her back on him dismissively.

“Think about it,” Alain said slyly, walking past her to leave the room.

“Aren’t you going to have breakfast?” Laura called after him.

“I’m too tired to eat, I’m going to bed,” Alain replied, and they heard him ascending the stairs.

Brigitte resumed her seat at the table, her expression thoughtful.

Her natural disinclination to use anyone warred with her desire to help Alain’s cause. It was true; Kurt already liked her. It wouldn’t be difficult to ask seemingly innocent questions, listen and report…
 

“Don’t let him upset you too much,” Laura said to Brigitte, dropping the strips of bacon into the pan. “He’s just frustrated, nothing is happening fast enough to suit him. He wants all the Germans gone
yesterday
and every morning he wakes up and they’re still here.”
 

“Aren’t you going to ask me about Kurt?” Brigitte said.

“That’s your business,” Laura replied crisply. “I know you wouldn’t do anything disloyal. And so does your brother.”

“You couldn’t tell that by listening to him,” Brigitte said wearily.

“That was just his way of letting off steam. He was involved in something very dangerous last night and I think he just scraped out of it by a hair. He was probably scared, if you want to know the truth, and taking it out on you.”

“You always defend him,” Brigitte said, smiling slightly.

“He reminds me so much of his brother,” Laura replied quietly.
 

 
Brigitte nodded slowly. Then she remembered how the previous conversation had started and said, “Tell me about this marine you’re hiding.”

Laura paused in the act of turning the strips of bacon. “When is your father due back?” she asked Brigitte.

“Not for a couple of hours. What does the American look like?”

Laura thought for a moment, and then answered, as if talking to herself, “He looks like the guy my mother warned me about when I was thirteen.”

Brigitte stared at her blankly.

Laura shrugged. “He’s tall, with dark hair and blue eyes.”

“How long has he been here?”

“Several weeks.”

Brigitte shuddered. “You’re taking a terrible chance.”

“It will be worth it.”

“I hope so.” Brigitte leaned forward as Laura removed the bacon from the pan and set it on newspapers to drain. “Is he loud and jovial, like Steve Perkins?” she persisted.
 

Steve Perkins had been a classmate of Laura’s and Thierry’s at the University, and was the only other American Brigitte had ever met.
 

“No,” Laura replied, sitting down across from her sister-in-law. “He’s kind of quiet, actually.”

“Describe him in a phrase,” Brigitte said, resuming a game they had played when Thierry was alive.

Laura considered it. “Resourceful,” she finally said. The expression in French,
plein de ressources
, meaning “full of capabilities,” was exactly on point, but Brigitte’s frown said she still wasn’t satisfied. Her insatiable curiosity about anything new was part of her charm and Laura always indulged it.

“Let me see,” Laura said, leaning back in her chair. “What else can I say about him?” She thought for a moment. “If all your life, everybody, your parents, adoring siblings, teachers at school, fellow officers in the service–everybody-treats you like you’re the greatest thing to come along since the apes swung down from the trees, sooner or later you believe that you are. And then of course you have to
act
the greatest and
be
the greatest: the toughest, smartest, strongest, bravest, to live up to your own image of yourself.”

Brigitte was watching her with a peculiar fixity, but she didn’t interrupt.

“And that,” Laura went on musingly, “is how men die in a war. I think that’s how Thierry died.” But she wasn’t talking just about Thierry and she knew it.

“Is this American like Thierry?” Brigitte asked, alerted not so much by the rambling, unfocused words but by the softening of Laura’s manner when she talked about the man.

“Not in personality, no,” Laura replied. “But there is something...”

She let the sentence trail off, unfinished, but Brigitte had heard enough.

“I’m starving,” she said, rising and ending the conversation, which had disturbed her. “I’ll do the toast.” She put a slice of bread on the end of a fork, and was opening the bottom of the stove as Laura got up behind her.

This American must be something unusual, Brigitte thought. She had not seen that expression on her sister-in-law’s face since Thierry died.

* * *

Late that afternoon, several hours after Brigitte reported to work at the hospital, Kurt Hesse tracked her down in the ward washroom. She was standing at the sink, rinsing operating equipment prior to putting it into the hopper, when he slipped into the small windowless cell and pulled the door shut behind him.

Startled, Brigitte whirled to face him, her hand going to her throat.
 

“What are you doing?” she gasped. “Did anyone see you come in here?”
 

“No one saw. I want to talk to you. Why didn’t you meet me in the chapel on your break?”

Brigitte turned away, running a specimen bottle under the flow of water. “What do you want?” she said.

Kurt reached around her and shut off the tap. “What I always want,” he replied.