Cold Lonely Courage (Madeleine toche Series Book 2) (3 page)

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CHAPTER
SEVEN

Jean-Pierre and Madeleine stood behind a derelict barn. The salt air had worn down the boards and nails, and it looked like a strong wind could push it over, but it made an effective shield for target practice.

They arranged a few cans from inside the barn along a pile of gravel in a small hollow that curved around the back of the farmyard.

“Won’t people passing by hear the shots?” Madeleine asked as they walked back towards a small table Jean-Pierre had set up a reasonable distance from the targets.

“For the job you’re going to do, a small caliber pistol will work best. Besides, nobody comes this way anymore and the Germans aren’t going to worry about a pea-shooter. If we ever get caught, we’re just shooting pigeons in the barn for our dinner.”

“Actually that doesn’t sound like a bad idea,” Madeleine said.

“We’ll get to that,” Jean-Pierre said, smiling. He set a cloth-wrapped object down in front of her.

“Where did this come from?” Madeleine asked, as she looked over at her father.

“I’ve had it a long time. My father gave it to me when I went off to war. He knew I couldn’t carry it on my hip like an officer, but he wanted me to hide it inside my uniform in case I needed it. He said it had been to war before, but that was all he told me.”

“Did you have to use it, Papa?”

“Too many times. Fighting in a trench is very close. The Germans are fierce fighters. Sometimes I used that at very short range or put the barrel against the other soldier’s body and pulled the trigger. That way, it’s impossible to miss.”

“Do you think I should do that when I kill the SS captain?”

“Yes, and it might also help to muffle the gunshot somewhat. Put the gun up against his head and pull the trigger. That way one shot will kill him. Now, if you mean what you say, pick that up. It’s loaded. Just aim and squeeze the trigger.”

Madeleine picked it up and pulled the cloth from around the small, wicked looking pistol. For its size, it felt heavy in her hand. She turned it over, instinctively releasing the lever that ejected the magazine, pushing it back into place. She smoothly raised the gun and pointed it towards the targets. Jean-Pierre watched her handle the weapon; she had neither fear nor hesitation. He had never seen Madeleine handle any firearm before and felt her affinity towards it as if it was an extension of her person. She fired holding the weapon at arm’s length, immediately correcting as her first shot went wide. The next three shots were rapid in succession as she hit each can.

Madeleine turned and smiled at Jean-Pierre and said, “I guess it’s not that hard.”

“Not for you. When have you ever fired a gun?”

“Never, but I’ve seen other people load and shoot before. My friend Janine’s brother, Paul let us watch while he shot targets before the war. He asked if I wanted to try it but I didn’t see the point, so I didn’t.”

“I hope this will be the only time you ever have to use one,” Jean-Pierre said. “Now take a few more shots. We don’t have very many bullets and should come back at least one other time. We need to get the plan straight.”

Madeleine fired the remaining bullets in the magazine. When she finished, Jean-Pierre pulled out a small rod and rag soaked in gun oil. “Always keep your weapon clean,” he said, opening the action and wiping it. He used the metal rod to push a piece of rag down inside the barrel. “That was a problem in the war. Most of the time we were ankle deep in mud and clay. Flanders is a bad place to dig in and try to stay dry. Now before we go home, we need to talk about things that are far more important than shooting a gun.”

Jean-Pierre swung his false leg over and started walking towards the far side of the barn and up a rise that overlooked the farm. At the top they sat down and looked out towards the Mediterranean glistening miles off in the distance beyond the town.

“You never talk about the day you lost your leg,” Madeleine said.

“One of my worst and best days,” Jean-Pierre said taking a pack of cigarettes from his pocket. Without asking he gave one to Madeleine.

“How did you know I liked to smoke?” Madeleine said, lighting her cigarette from the match cupped in her father’s hand.

“I have a wooden leg, not a wooden head, Madeleine,” he said, smiling. “I know a little bit about what you and your friends get up to. Now, the day I lost my leg. It was in the winter of 1917 and it was cold, the coldest ever. Everything was frozen. We couldn’t even find lumber to shore up our trenches. Every piece of wood went into our little stove in the dugout we hid in when the shelling started. Artillery was the worst. It never ended. I saw strong men break and cry like babies when it didn’t stop. I just held onto my friends for dear life and prayed. I’ve prayed to God so many times, but I’ve cursed him many times too, probably more. You see, once you’ve used an enemy corpse to plug a hole in a crumbling wall or to hide behind, you start to have an interesting relationship with life and death. There’s so much of it that you lose count of the men you’ve killed or the friends you’ve lost. Finally all you have is the struggle to survive. The only thing you care about is your friends suffering alongside you.”

“I’m so sorry, Papa. I don’t know what to say.” For a moment they smoked in silence, looking towards the little town and the poor man’s diamonds glistening on the sea beyond.

“You can see why I wanted to spare you from any of that,” Jean-Pierre said. “The hardest part is the killing. Even though you tell yourself, they’re the enemy and I have to kill them, you know it’s wrong. The first time I had to bayonet a man, he screamed for his life, gagging and spitting up blood. That was on my first charge when the whistle blew and we went over the top, right straight into enemy machine gun fire. I ran as fast as I could and jumped into the enemy trench and jammed the end of my rifle into the first soldier I found. Blood splashed all over me, in my face and on my boots. I kept going. Some guys couldn’t. They hung back while the rest of us did the killing. We picked up the dead bodies and stacked them at the far end of the trench. We didn’t have time to do anything else because the Bosch were firing mortars down on us. That was bad enough, but nothing like when the big artillery opens up. That’s hell. Ask any soldier that’s been under it.”

“You told us that sometimes it would be weeks between battles.”

“It’s unbelievably boring and we never had enough of anything, food or ammunition. But when those heartless bastards in the rear wanted us ready to fight, hot food would show up. And brandy. That’s why I don’t drink it now. I’ve had my fill. It was rats and brandy along with the rotting bodies and filth. The rats were everywhere. We’d trap them and eat them when we had to. The people in the nearby towns just left. We didn’t care; we’d loot when we could. If you could come back with a chicken or an armful of wine, bread, anything, and you were a hero. We would tell each other stories about food and the meals we’d eat when the war was over. At that point we didn’t care who won. We just wanted it to be over.”

“What about your leg?”

“That was my last day of the war. It was just another battle. A grenade got tossed into the trench and blew up behind me and tore the bottom of my leg right off. I was in shock and kept firing until a medic pulled me back and put a tourniquet on it. The ambulance boys came and that was the last time I saw the war up close.”

“How was that also one of your best days?”

“My war was over. My killing had stopped. I lived,” Jean-Pierre said. He shook his head. “Now we’re at war again, and I’ve lost my son. And soon your killing will begin. Remember the hardest part will be the first time you pull the trigger.”

“Not after what he did to me.”

“We’ll see, Madeleine. Now let’s get that old truck down the hill. I’m sure your mother’s wondering where we are.”

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CHAPTER
EIGHT

“He’s out front,” Madeleine whispered to Jean-Pierre as the two of them stood just outside the swinging doors to the kitchen.

“He’s with a group of soldiers. They’re all SS, they must be under his command,” Jean-Pierre answered. “Are you ready? We can wait, but we might not get another chance for a while.”

“He waited almost a month. I was starting to wonder if he was going to come in at all,” Madeleine said.

“Remember the plan. Be nice, get his guard down,” Jean-Pierre said.

“I will. If I have to go with him again and he’s not drunk, I will.”

“That’s the part of the plan I don’t like,” Jean-Pierre said.

“I better go greet him.”

“Alright,” Jean-Pierre said. “I’ll bring enough bottles over to get them good and started.”

Madeleine walked over towards the front door. The SS Captain immediately caught her eye and the smile on her face.

“Hello Captain, you’ve been a stranger,” Madeleine said taking his hand. “We’ve got a large table by the front window for you and your men.”

“Mademoiselle,
how nice to see you again,” he said. “Gentlemen, go ahead and take a seat. I’d like a word with this beautiful young lady.” The other soldiers walked by and made their way past occupied tables as Jean-Pierre arrived with the wine bottles and busied himself helping the men to situate themselves.

“I thought you would be less friendly after the other day,” Hirschman said quietly, his lips a few inches from Madeleine’s ear.

“I wish it could have been better for the both of us. You know, a nicer place, and some time to enjoy one another. I’d rather be your friend.”

“I’m a good friend to have. We’ll put the other day behind us. We’re here to celebrate another German victory in North Africa. The men with me are transferring to the front. It’s sort of a farewell party,” he said, as he started to remove his jacket.

“Let me help you with that,” Madeleine said as she drew the jacket over his shoulders. “If we could be discreet and meet later…” Madeleine said as he handed her his hat.

“Yes of course. I certainly don’t want any competition from my fellow officers for your attention,” he said, smiling without the cruelty she remembered. Madeleine hung his coat and hat on a rack by the door, gesturing towards the men already pouring the wine and tearing apart the bread Jean-Pierre had set out.

“Here we are Captain,” Madeleine said as she pulled out the chair at the head of the table. She made sure to brush her hand against his shoulder as she turned to leave so that the other men could see. You arrogant bastard, you’re mine, she thought as she allowed her hand to linger, giving him a meaningful smile. “I’ll give you some time to enjoy the wine. Let us know when you want something to eat. The kitchen will be open as long as you like.”

“You are too kind,
Mademoiselle
,” the Captain said, pouring himself a glass of wine.

Once Madeleine had left them, a burly sergeant said, “Another one of your conquests, Captain?”

“Can I help it if I’m irresistible,” he answered as the men laughed.

Madeleine smiled again to hide her disgust at the charade. As she walked back towards the kitchen, she caught Jean-Pierre’s eye as he stood near the door holding a tray. She nodded imperceptibly. Jean-Pierre nodded back. “Good,” he said as they passed in front of the kitchen door.

“Tonight,” Madeleine said.

The restaurant cleared out as the evening progressed, and the soldiers’ party got louder. Madeleine and Jean-Pierre worked to keep the men’s glasses full and to serve them whatever they wanted, pushing stronger drinks when they could.

“Have some more schnapps, men. You haven’t tried this one yet,” Jean-Pierre said as he brought another tray of overflowing glasses of the strong liquor over to the table.

“A soldier never refuses a drink,” the Captain said raising his glass unsteadily as his men followed suit. “A song, Carl,” he bellowed, pointing at a young sergeant at the far end of the table. As the men broke into another drinking song, Madeleine bent down and whispered into the Captain’s ear.

“Don’t forget later,” she whispered.

“I won’t,” he said awkwardly gripping her arm. “Come by my apartment on the Rue de Marche. You know the one run by that old widow, whose name I can’t remember,” he said reaching out for his wine glass.

“Madame
Thomas?” Madeleine said.

“Yes, yes that’s it. I’ll head over there and you follow me,” he said trying to focus on Madeleine’s face as he swayed in his chair.

“I’ll be there as soon as you send these men on their way.”

The Captain drained his glass. “Men, let’s take this party out in the street. Time for us to get home before you miss breakfast and your train,” he said as he unsteadily got to his feet. Madeleine took his arm and led him to the front door followed by the other men, most of whom held onto one another for support.

“For the party,” Madeleine said handing the least impaired soldier a small bottle of brandy, as the group lurched out the door onto the sidewalk arm in arm.

“He’s gone,” Madeleine said as Jean-Pierre walked up.

“Thank God. I don’t think the wine cellar could take anymore,” Jean-Pierre said. “Let’s clear the dishes and get you ready to go.”

Madeleine watched as her father moved over to the table and began to stack glasses onto a tray. She realized that the time to act had come. Jean-Pierre turned as he noticed that she hadn’t answered him. “You can back out anytime, Madeleine. My advice would be to forget the plan.”

“He’ll be expecting me. Maybe not tonight when he passes out, by he’ll be back. It has to be tonight. Did you make arrangements down at the port?”

“Everything is ready, but we have to get going. You’ll have to leave before dawn and get out ahead of the other boats.”

“Let’s go, then,” Madeleine said, gathering the rest of the glasses. She followed her father back to the kitchen.

“Your bag is in the cupboard. The pistol is there and all of the ammunition just in case. Do you have everything else?”

“I’ve got what I need.”

“Then let’s go.”

As they walked back through the kitchen, she opened the cupboard door and removed the pistol and ammunition. “Here, hold onto these, Papa. I have a place to hide the pistol but not the shells.” Jean-Pierre took the box from her hand and placed it in the pocket of his coat.

Madeleine stopped and looked around, giving her father a tight smile as she turned and walked out the door. “I’ll be back, you know,” Madeleine said, following Jean-Pierre out onto the patio.

“I know you will. We’ll be here.”

Using the back alleys, they walked steadily towards Hirschman’s apartment. It was well into the early morning hours and the streets were deserted. Most of the street lights were not in use to conserve energy and to avoid illuminating a port that might be a target for Allied bombing, if any ever came. It will be over in an hour or so, Madeleine thought as they slowed down. “Tonight is the night you send that bastard to hell,” she said to herself as the alley opened up onto the Rue de Marche.

“I see a light on upstairs. That must be his room,” Madeleine said. “When I knock, what happens if Madame Thomas answers?”

“Remember she’s deaf,” Jean-Pierre said. “That’s our one lucky break. If she answers, tell her the men left something at the restaurant and you just want to leave a note.”

“I know we talked about that, sorry.”

“Nervous?”

“Very,” Madeleine said, turning towards her father.

“Don’t look at him, just do it like we discussed.”

“I’m ready,” Madeleine said kissing her father on the cheek. “Give me some time, and then I’ll meet you down at the boat.”

“Do it for all of us. Do it for Yves and yourself. Death to the Boche,” Jean-Pierre said, gripping her shoulder.

Madeleine crossed over to the doorway of the small concierge. She was thankful that the light over the door was turned out. She reached out and knocked firmly. She knew the other tenants moved out when the SS Captain moved in. She heard heavy footsteps on the stairs and then someone fumbling with the latch.

“I knew you would come,” he said his speech slurred, as he reached out to usher her in the doorway. Madeleine put her arm around him as he leaned heavily into her body. His uniform was partially unbuttoned and his jacket was off.

“Of course I came,” Madeleine said, giving him a quick kiss on the lips. “We better get you upstairs and out of those clothes.”

“That sounds like fun,” he said grabbing the handrail as he pulled himself up the stairs.

At the top of the stairwell Madeleine helped Hirschman into his apartment. “What a nice place,” Madeleine said, guiding him into the living room adjacent to the bedroom. The apartment had a small kitchenette and a sitting room that overlooked the street. Inside the bedroom, Madeleine lowered Hirschman onto the bed. He immediately fell to his side with his feet still on the floor.

“Let’s get those boots off,” Madeleine said raising Hirschman’s feet so that he was fully on the bed. She tossed the boots off haphazardly remembering not to leave any indication that he’d been helped. I don’t suppose they’ll care much about that when they find a dead body, she thought looking down at the man. Now that she was in his room she felt her resolve strengthen. He was alone and vulnerable. Once he passes out all I have to do is pull the trigger. “I’ll be right back. I have to use the toilet,” she said leaning over his body. He grunted as he rolled onto his front.

Madeleine opened the door and looked out into the hallway. She took off her shoes and carried them down the hall. Once inside the bathroom, she slipped off her outer clothes revealing a thin negligee she had spirited out of her mother’s drawer. It was old and small and she wondered whether her mother still wore it, or if she would even notice that it was gone. She clicked on the bare bulb over the sink and looked in the mirror. She looked herself in the eye and whispered, “Do it.”

Pulling the cord on the light, she opened the door and stepped out, carrying her clothes. Maybe he’s already asleep, she thought as she opened the door to the apartment and slipped inside. Hirschman had shifted onto his back and was snoring loudly. Madeleine sat down on a chair next to a writing table and watched to see if he was awake at all. She waited several long minutes. Satisfied, she stood and pulled her clothes over the negligee. The pistol was still strapped to her inner thigh and she placed in on the table as she dressed. When she was finished, she picked up the gun and glanced around the room, moving over to a shaded bedside lamp that gave off the only light in the room. She turned it off and moved towards the front of the apartment. The drapes over the front window were partially closed. She pulled them quickly together, giving Jean-Pierre the prearranged signal that she was in place.

Madeleine moved back to the bed and removed a pillow. She covered the pistol with it, holding it with her left hand, careful to cover the end of the barrel to suppress the sound and any flash the gun would give off. Madeleine looked down into the man’s face as she placed the pillow against his right temple. In sleep the scowl was gone. He looked peaceful, hardly capable of the rape he had committed.

The sound of the pistol report surprised Madeleine, even though she had pulled the trigger. She didn’t remember the conscious thought to do it. Yves torn body and her helplessness during her rape were the last images in her mind. The gun’s report sounded like a small firecracker but to her it seemed deafening. Everyone in the neighborhood must have heard it, she thought as she froze waiting for someone to raise the alarm, listening for the sound of footsteps.

Several tense moments passed as Madeleine listened to every creak and moan the old building made. When nothing happened she realized that the room had largely contained the sound of the gunshot. She turned and looked at the corpse, noticing a few feathers drifting down into the blood soaking into the sheets beneath his head. She reached down feeling for his pulse and found nothing. She looked down at his lifeless eyes and knew he was dead. Madeleine was amazed how easy it had been to take a life. It had been easier to kill him than to be raped, and to live with the marks he had left on her body. She raised her skirt, tucking away the pistol.

Madeleine checked the room, making sure that she left no trace of her presence. She listened at the door a moment, but no one in the small rooming house had stirred. She left the house and went into the street, glancing in both directions. The town was asleep. She made her way down to the docks, keeping her face focused on the road so that anyone remembering a person passing would not be able to describe her accurately.

After a few minutes, the road opened into a cobblestoned boulevard leading to the place where the fishing boats were moored for the night. She saw her father walk up, coming out of the shadows farther down the dock away from the nearest street lamp. The dark water lapped against the wooden posts, draped with fishing nets and cork floats, heavy with the strong smell of fish. The familiar odors mingled with the smells of the sea, and a whiff of fuel oil. The smell had a character all its own, personal to people that lived with it daily, depending on it for their livelihoods and identity. Madeleine savored it, wondering when she would be able to do so again.

“Well, soldier?” Jean-Pierre asked as he walked closer, awkwardly limping with his false leg.

“He won’t rape anybody again,” Madeleine said, hugging him fiercely.

“Always remember that he was an animal, Madeleine. There are more to kill. God’s work will be done,” Jean-Pierre said. A lump formed in her throat. The time for the hardest part of the plan had come. It was time for her to leave.

“I could hold you forever, Madeleine, but that wouldn’t be safe. It is time for you to leave and carry on the fight from wherever the English lead. They are a resolute and determined people. The men and women of England will all die before they let Germany take over their country.”

Together they turned and Jean-Pierre led her to the far end of the dock facing the open sea, stopping in front of a boat, a lantern burning faintly on a pole hung from its bow. The boat was a trawler. Jacques, a fisherman whose catch had often been served in the Toche restaurant, was readying the boat. He looked more weathered than the rough wooden boards of his deck. Without comment he took Madeleine’s hand in his. She could feel the immense strength in his gnarled fingers as he gently helped her aboard.