Clash by Night (2 page)

Becker lifted his hand again, and three of the soldiers abandoned their posts and began to move through the crowd, searching the men.

Alain surrendered his knife with barely concealed frustration; again the colonel noticed him, then looked away. The travelers were offered dark beer from casks in one of the trucks, and drank thirstily, lost in the simple pleasure of filling their bellies. Becker waited until all had concluded their repast and then asked mildly, “Is there a leader among you?”
 

Several heads turned toward Laura’s father-in-law Henri, who shrank visibly. Becker stared at him steadily until he was forced to step forward reluctantly, his eyes on the ground.

“And you are?” Becker inquired, inclining his head slightly.

“Henri Duclos,” Henri replied, his voice barely audible.

“What is your function?”
 

Henri seemed incapable of further speech. Panicked, he continued to look at his feet, and the silence lengthened dangerously until Laura interjected, “He is the mayor.”

“The mayor of what?” Becker asked archly, glancing at her. His tone seemed to suggest that whatever the answer was it couldn’t be much.

Laura met his gaze squarely. “Fains-les-Sources, the village just to the south of here.”

“You are all from Fains?” Becker asked. It was clear he’d heard of it.

“Yes.”

He looked back at Henri, and bowed slightly, a hint of irony in the courtly gesture.

“Henri Duclos, you will present yourself at 0900 hours Friday at my quarters. I will then detail your instructions. There is a hospital ahead, I am told?”
 

“Yes,” Henri responded hoarsely, finding his voice again. “In Bar-le-Duc.”

“How far is that?”

“Four kilometers beyond Fains, on this road.”

Becker nodded. “You will find me there.”

He said something in German, and the driver inched the jeep forward, the crowd separating to let it pass. Becker looked directly ahead, oblivious to the locals, and the other vehicles followed his. The villagers watched the departing train until it was out of sight.

“Pigs,” Alain said, spitting into the dirt. He alone had eaten nothing of the proffered food, and he glared after the Germans fixedly, as if he could still see them.

“What do we do now?” Brigitte asked of her brother.

“We go home,” Laura answered for him. “There’s nothing else
to
do.”

“God, I wish Thierry were here,” Alain said fiercely, clenching his fingers and then relaxing them, his whole body tensed for action.

“So do I,” Laura responded softly, looking at Henri. The older man turned away, avoiding the reference to his dead son.

Several of the men in the group were already turning around to go back they way they had come, and the rest followed suit wearily. Laura helped Henri reverse the direction of his horse and then brought up the rear, wondering how long it would take them to get back to Fains. And what the town would be like when they got there. The Germans would reach Bar-le-Duc that afternoon and be waiting for them.

The trip home was slowed by the continuing influx of foreign troops; Becker’s company had been the first they’d seen, but it was by no means the last. The road was clogged with vehicles as the cars and trucks of the invading forces took precedence over the foot traffic of the French. It was late Wednesday when the Duclos family arrived back at their home, exhausted and apprehensive. The German flag was flying from the post office in Fains, and an armored patrol car cruised the streets at a leisurely pace, alerting the citizens to its presence. The main contingent of the military had passed on to the hospital at Bar-le-Duc. One could almost pretend that nothing had happened, until surprised by the sudden appearance of a staff jeep on the street or the sound of a guttural command. But the Germans were only settling in as yet; in a few days their presence would be more keenly felt.

On the morning after their return Laura was alone in the kitchen. She shoveled coal into the bottom of the stove and pumped water into the black kettle, putting it at the back of the iron cover to heat. Alain had already left for his job at the glass factory. Brigitte was back at the student nurse’s dormitory and Henri was still sleeping upstairs. Things had almost a semblance of normalcy, but she had only to look out the window to discern that those appearances were deceiving. A column of soldiers was conducting a drill on the main street; she was to learn that this performance would be repeated at the same time every day, a little demonstration of military might designed to intimidate the populace. Laura drew the curtains and turned away.

She made her tea and sat at the scrubbed deal table, sipping and thinking, trying to ignore the rhythmic thud of booted feet in the street outside the house.
 

She had arrived in France at twenty, an American exchange student at the university at Nancy. There she met and fell in love with Thierry Duclos, the older son of Henri Duclos, mayor of Fains-les-Sources. Over the strenuous objections of her parents Laura, always headstrong and now in love, married Thierry as soon as he received his degree. They returned to Fains together, where Thierry took up his position as the manager of the glassworks, the town’s only industry. They had lived in his widowed father’s house, along with Alain and Brigitte, until the invasion of Poland by Germany in September of 1939. When France declared war on Germany two days later, Thierry had been one of the first to enlist. He didn’t last long, and Laura had been devastated by his loss.

She thought now about those initial days without him, a time shrouded in her memory by a dull haze of pain. Her parents, concerned with the worsening situation in Europe, had flooded her with mail pleading for her to return to America. But she had wanted to stay where she’d been so happy with Thierry, and where she felt needed. So she had continued to bicycle the two miles to work every weekday, passing the hospital where Brigitte was a student nurse. She kept busy with her job, virtually running the school in Bar-le-Duc with most of the men away in the war, until the invasion of Paris had thrown all their lives into chaos.

Laura rotated the earthenware cup in her hands, studying the paste of leaves at the bottom. Just a week earlier she had received another urgent letter from her father, enclosing passage money and begging her to come home. But she couldn’t leave France now. It was unthinkable.

 
She got up and ran her empty cup under the flow from the pump, glancing at her watch. It was time to go to the school. The children would be assembling, looking to their teachers to make sense out of the current confusion. She had to get things back on an even keel, show them that their education would continue even in the event of a vanquished and occupied France.

She left by the rear door, taking care to avoid the dispersing band of soldiers on the road.
 

* * *

Becker stood in the main lobby of the Hôpital Sacre Coeur in Bar-le-Duc and watched as his men hung the Nazi flag. The black swastika, encircled by a white field on a background of red, draped from the overhanging balcony to fall free almost to the first floor. The thing was gigantic, a powerful message to anyone entering the building concerning who was now in charge. He stared at it gravely for several seconds, then turned as his aide Hesse approached him and saluted smartly.

“Everything is in order,
Oberst
,” the boy said.

“You’ve told the chief of staff that I will require the resident’s wing to house my men?” Becker asked.

“Yes, sir. And he’ll be cleaning out his office for you shortly. That’s it over there.” Hesse pointed to a door labeled
Directeur.

“How long before all the workers return to their positions here and the hospital is running efficiently again?”

“They’re coming back now, sir,” Hesse replied in a low tone, turning so their conversation could not be overheard. “Word is getting around and the chief will be holding a meeting this afternoon to give them your instructions.”

“Very good,” Becker nodded, looking away. Hesse was very efficient; he would oversee everything and come to his superior only with those problems he could not solve himself. “I’ll be inside there if you need me.”

“Will you be requiring any lunch, Colonel?”

Becker looked at him, at the silvery blond hair and wide blue eyes, and almost smiled. The kid treated him like a powerful but absent minded uncle who had to be reminded to eat.

“Nothing, Hesse. Coffee, if you can find any in this place. I believe the kitchen help took off with the rest of the staff,” he concluded dryly, “but someone may be back there now.”

“I’ll try, sir,” Hesse said, and saluted again, turning on his heel. Becker watched the activity of his men a little longer after his aide had left, and then went into the medical director’s office.

It was a large, cluttered room, still stacked with the doctor’s files and papers, but it would serve the purpose once it was cleaned out and organized. Becker took off his cap, smoothing his thick black hair, lightly frosted at the temples. He gazed out the broad leaded window at the open field that backed the hospital. He sighed, wondering what his dead father would have said to find his son in this ignoble, humiliating situation.

Becker turned from the window and removed his coat, thinking inexplicably of his wife. He sat on the edge of the desk and tried to pinpoint in his mind when it had all started to go bad: his marriage, his career, his life. Hard to say, exactly. But the final result was this unenviable posting to the outback of France, overseeing a factory conversion and acting as a babysitter to a beaten people.
 

Becker rose and loosened his collar, listening to the faint babble of French and German voices audible through the door. He patted his pockets for his cigarettes and came up with his wallet instead. He opened it and removed the picture of his two sons, examining the pale hair and pale eyes they shared, their inheritance from Elise. Then he stuffed the picture back into its compartment and tossed the wallet on the desk, his expression distant. He found his packet of cigarettes and lit one of them, inhaling deeply.
 

There was a knock on the door.

“What is it?” Becker called, crushing his cigarette absently in the director’s ashtray.
 

“Hesse, sir.”

“Come in.”
 

Hesse entered the room, bearing a tray.

“Coffee, sir,” he announced, placing his burden on the desk.
 

“Hesse, you are a marvel,” Becker said.

“I do my best, sir.”

Becker poured the coffee and sipped gratefully, then grimaced at its bitterness. He had forgotten that the French always boiled it.

“Well, Kurt, here we are,” he said to his aide conversationally.

“Yes, sir.”

“Not exactly in line with your boyhood dreams of glorious combat, is it?” Becker commented dryly. “I’m sure this isn’t what you were thinking about when you enlisted. No noble foe to be conquered here, eh?”

The young man glanced at him nervously and was silent, unsure how to reply.
 

Becker sighed and waved him away dismissively. “Go on, boy, don’t pay any attention to me. I’m sure you have something to do. Send the director to me as soon as he finishes with his meeting.”

Hesse watched him uncertainly.

“Go on,” Becker repeated. “I’m fine.”

Reassured, Hesse removed the rest of the tray’s contents and took the empty with him when he departed.

Becker finished his coffee and lit another cigarette, noticing that Hesse had left a wrapped sandwich on the desk. He picked it up and sniffed it. Pâté. Impressed with the boy’s diligence, he pulled off the paper and took a bite. He might as well finish it. There was no doubt it would be a very long day.

* * *

The following morning, Laura accompanied Henri to the hospital for his interview with the German commandant. They walked up the steps to the main entrance, and Laura stopped short when she caught sight of the flag dominating the lobby.
 

The first floor was a flurry of activity. The Germans were nothing if not productive; almost overnight the place had been transformed into a barracks cum infirmary that combined both functions with Teutonic thoroughness. The sight of the gray uniforms and the sound of the harsh language, so different from the mellifluous French of the natives, assaulted Laura’s senses. Her throat closed abruptly and she had to look away. It was finally, really true.
La belle France
had tumbled into the ungentle hands of these grim, competent barbarians, and the fate of her adopted country was at their mercy.

Henri started as a soldier approached them, and Laura recognized the blond corporal who had given Becker the bullhorn the day the Germans arrived.

“Henri Duclos?” he said, looking at the older man.

Henri nodded, swallowing. The soldier, who appeared to be in his early twenties, turned to Laura.

“Who are you?” he said in German.

“I am Laura Duclos, his daughter-in-law,” Laura responded in the same language. On the last word a door to their left opened and another uniformed man emerged, nodding to the corporal that they could go inside.