Stile Maus (11 page)

‘Can I help you gentlemen?’ Stefan heard him say. 

‘We’re looking for Stefan De Lorme,’ boomed one of the soldiers, ‘we understand he is under your employment, it would be wise to tell us of his whereabouts, old man.’  Old Mr Morel rubbed a frail hand over the white bristles of his finely fashioned moustache and sighed,

‘I’m afraid you’re a few years too late,’ he said insincerely, ‘that boy hasn’t worked here for a good while now.  Always turning up late, drunk most of the time, well it was bad for business.’ 

The commanding officer creased his lips with a growl, nodding firmly at his comrades who instantly took to searching the small cupboards and tool bays that surrounded them.  Their leather hands thrust aside slats of stray wood and pots and tools as they savagely began their hunt, making sure considerable amounts of damage was dealt to each finished furniture piece along the way.  Mr Morel stood by, his arms folded against his olive green apron.  Stefan counted five.  One guarding the door, two recklessly hurtling wooden sculptures around the room, one giving the orders and one standing a few feet away from the workshop in which he hid.  A gap between the dislodged doors offered a view of the entire show room.  Something had to be done.  His eyes fell upon a chisel that sat upon his workbench, its blunt point half buried within a heap of sawdust.  No match for one machine gun, let alone five. 

‘I couldn’t interest you gentlemen in some half-price furniture, could I?’ Mr Morel croaked
, blinking as yet another one of his wooden arrangements shattered against the floor.  The travelling curtains of dust began to settle upon Stefan’s sweat dampened brow.  His gaze darted towards the far wall where a long line of hacksaws were kept, hanging by their rugged blades.  Another splintering crash hit the floor sending brackets of broken timber in every direction.  A hammer rested against the foot of an unfinished chest of drawers. 

‘You’re going to run out of furniture soon, old man,’ said the talker, stepping towards the feeble figure of the shop owner with a clenched fist.

‘Enough!’ cried Stefan.  He thrust himself through the gap and stepped out onto the shop floor.  He raised his hands above his belt.  His fingers carried nothing but dust. 

‘That’s enough.’ 

The soldier unclenched his gloved hand.

‘Stefan De
Lorme?’ he questioned.

‘Yes,’ Stefan choked.  Footsteps crept across the floorboards behind him.  Mr Morel looked at him with great sympathy. 

‘Just don’t hurt...’ the curved end of a machine gun hit the back of his head and in seconds Stefan found himself dreaming within a swell of complete darkness. 

He came around minutes later, his face hovering not far from the cobbled street below.  His stomach hummed with a throbbing pain, as did his face and head.  Voices surrounded him, shallow whispers, shrieking cries, astonished yells.  The onlookers posed many expressions, most of which appalled at the public display of violence they were witnessing.  The remainder couldn’t bear to watch, covering their faces with a trembling shield of fingers.  Stefan groaned as he was forced to his knees.  A convoy of trucks had stalled at the pavement edge.  The guards holding him attempted to bring him to his feet but Stefan refused, pulling his weight down upon their arms.  A hefty thump hit his chin.

‘Stand,’ boomed one of the soldiers.  The grip on his shoulders tightened and he was yanked upwards by the tuft of his collar. 

‘Stefan!!’  He shot a look down the street.  His bruised eyes widened, suddenly filled with distress.  Her dress flailed around her legs as they pulled her towards the stalling truck.  Her hair flustered, partly covering her frightened face. 

‘Tell him,’ she began, gasping for breath, ‘Stefan, tell him I love-,’ A hand clasped at her mouth and in seconds she was gone, dragged up a shallow ladder of stairs and into the enclosed cab of the furthest truck.  

Stefan lunged forwards,

‘You bastards,’ he hollered.  An elbow rammed fiercely into his rib cage sending him sprawling down onto the street.  The heel of a boot crashed down against his cheek.

‘You’ll keep your mouth shut,’ bellowed a guard, plunging another strike into Stefan’s beaten chin. 

Stefan groaned as he was hauled to his knees.  A guard came before him, bearing a set of chains.   

‘Cross your arms,’ he boomed, dangling the links of steel in front of Stefan’s gritted grimace.  Mustering a shallow pool of spittle and blood Stefan spat the brew scornfully onto the tall boots of the chain bearer, the excess drool spilling away from his cracked lips.  The officer glowered, his eyes alight with shock. 

‘Your family will pay for that, scum.’  Before Stefan could so much as think of a seething response an approaching guard gripped his chin and stuffed a dirty rag into his mouth, tying it into a forceful knot at the back of his neck.  It was a gag of instant suffocation, his tongue desperately writhing around to rid itself of the taste of grot.  The surrounding crowds had thickened.  Bands of open mouths and terror filled eyes stretched across the sidewalk, gawping and whispering as Stefan’s wrists were bound with chains.  The guard in front of him tucked the key into his breast pocket and stared into his captive’s eyes with an incredible resentment.  For a moment his eyes flickered over Stefan’s shoulder and his helmet tilted with a slight nod.  His sinister gape returned with a smile and seconds later a hood was thrust over Stefan’s head.  Before he could even adjust to the foul smelling cloth that now covered his face Stefan was shoved sideward until his shins scraped the steel steps of the closest truck.  He lodged his boot against one of the laddered steps and pushed until the officer holding him stumbled and they both clattered to the ground.  The shuddering mob of onlookers almost cheered.  Stefan got to his feet, blinded by the shawl of grubby cloth and stalled, clenching his locked fists in a tight hammer.  He back tracked until his back hit something hard, something metallic.  The bump had startled him and he turned to face it only for a rifle to swing into the back of his leg.  He fell against what he thought was the chassis of a large truck and toppled to the floor, barely able to cushion his fall.  He was grabbed below his arms and thrust up a row of stairs and his shoulder crashed onto the hard flooring.  The scarce light that had dotted through Stefan’s hood vanished as the tarp came down across the rear.  Over the shuddering sound of the engine and his pulsating heartbeat Stefan heard the clip of the front cabin doors closing and moments later the truck let out a stressed whinge as it began to roll through the street.  As he lay there, beaten and broken, Stefan let out a whimpered sigh.  His family danced within the pitch black stitches that sat before his eyes.  His friends too, talking and smiling amidst the darkened blotches of shabby stitching and uneven weaves.  Stefan twitched and turned until he could push himself up against the inner frame of the cab.  The metal dug at his shoulder blades and heckled at the bobbles in his spine.  His breath was hard and fast through the clefts in his mask but it refused to fluster.  The air was stale, intoxicating almost and panic had formed within his chest.  A groan spluttered beside him, not two feet away.  Stefan called out, his words lost within the sponge of fabric latched around his cheeks.  He bit, chew, cried.  He wasn’t alone.  Tears began to simmer by the corners of his eyes only to shortly soak into the hooded rag.  He stretched out a leg,
feeling around the floor with the toe of his boot.  It came up against something hard, Stefan wasn’t sure what.  All he knew is that he wasn’t alone.    

He woke.  The road had changed, it was bumpier, noisier.  The air seemed colder too, floating through the tiny rips in his mask and settling upon his lips and neck.  He must have given into the pain and passed out.  The hood of stinking cloth tortured his eyes as he tried to open them, forcing them into a constant fluster.  His body ached with every movement, every bump that rattled the truck.  He attempted another cry but it was to no avail, tiredness aided the grubby rag in dissolving each rushed word.  The tyres jolted to the left and hissed onto softer ground.  Stefan clenched his legs, desperate not to topple to one side.  The truck shook slightly and then trembled to a halt.  Moments later a guard stood at the arch of the cabin, brandishing the crinkled tarp in one hand, a pistol in the other.

‘Out,’ he boomed.  From what Stefan heard, no one moved.  A curse spat into the frosty air and the guard lunged into the cabin, grabbing Stefan’s collar and yanking him down into the muddy path with some difficulty. 

‘Kern!’ he yelled with exhaustion, ‘Kern, get back here!’  Stefan felt his knees sink into the mud beneath him.  After a scuffle another thud hit the ground, followed by a sequence of muffled yelps.

‘Help me with this.’  The driver arrived with heavy boots and clunked into the back of the truck, snatching at the nearest prisoner.  

‘Since when has that been there?’ said the driver as he handed a captive down and into the arms of his awaiting comrade. 

‘Since someone took our truck this morning,’ the other soldier growled, shoving the hooded prisoner onto the ground, ‘we were lucky this one was left in the hangar.’  Stefan fumbled at the joins around his wrists.  The soft, dank mud melting under the curve of his knees had found its way under his fingernails and latched to his palms in thick sodden blotches.   

‘Get to your feet,’ one of the guards barked.  Stefan scrambled and kicked until he stood; wincing at the pain in his arms and legs.  The butt of a rifle clashed at his shoulder.

‘Faster!’

He raised his hood from the dirt and arched his back, hoisting his battered body upward until he swayed and rocked in the forceful breeze.  A nudge edged past his arm, not the aggressive barge of a guard but possibly a blind accident from a passing prisoner.  Stefan listened intently.  Judging by the various thuds and scuffles there had to be a few captives that now huddled around the back of the truck.

‘Move.’
  A chime of chains began to clink as the procession of captives moved, stepping forwards with sightless caution.  Again Stefan listened, battling the sound of his pounding heart, trying to gauge how many prisoners followed him across the muddy path.  It wasn’t clear, too many sounds clustered around the outside of his mask.  The ragged piece of cloth that silenced his lips held strong.  Hot billows of air sizzled away from the crown of his hood. 

‘Stop!’ bellowed a voice not far upfront.  A latch seemed to unlock and the shrill creak of a gate could be heard in the distance.  They started up once again, walking blindly through the wind held gate and onto a field glazed in mist.  Stefan shivered, noticing the drop in temperature.  Though he wouldn’t admit it to himself, he knew.  He knew he would most definitely die tonight, in this field, staring into the blackness of his mask, not knowing or seeing his inevitable end.  A hand met his arm, guiding him powerfully to the left until his quivering shoulder met another.  An orchestra of jingling chains bloomed around Stefan indicating his fellow prisoners had joined together in a shuddering formation.  A memory blazed from the within the darkness.  The colours of a street fabricated, then came a cafe and its crowded terrace, the cafe where
Ludivine served as a waitress by day.  Stefan found himself squinting, almost trying to make the vision clearer as a table emerged, graced with a number of blurred faces.  He sat with his friends, joking and laughing, drinking and talking.  Ludivine sat upon Gerard’s lap, their eyes fixed to one another.  Michel sat beside them, Jaques too.  Patrice leaned across and tapped Stefan’s arm, his smile contagious. 

‘Here, Stefan, take a look.’  Within his hand he held the flimsy pages of a newspaper.  Stefan snapped it open before him and let his eyes fall across the blazing headlines.

‘We’re famous, Stefan,’ Patrice grinned, ‘come tomorrow the whole world will know about the stallers.’ 

The vision disbanded within a spiral of throbbing pain.  Stefan hit the floor.  The officer stood over him, ranting and spitting as he yanked at Stefan’s collar.

‘You hear me staller?  Get up, get up and join your brothers.’  Though his ears were swollen with pain and bitten by the cold evening frost Stefan knew what he had heard.  Each word echoed through the crowded chambers of his mind.  The prisoners that stood beside him were his brothers, his friends, his fellow stallers.  The guard raised his fist once more and was about to strike again when a voice sounded from behind him. 

‘Leave that for now,’ the other soldier said sternly, ‘where are the rifles?’ 

Stefan felt his heart kick.  His mind raced, searching for the reasons as to why he found himself here, standing amongst four of his closest friends, facing their bitter end.  

‘This is all we have,’ replied the other, now much closer. 

‘Kern, we arrived in Paris with a thousand pieces of artillery, why on earth have we been left with only one rifle?’

‘I told you already, our truck was taken, there must be a spare one in the cab.’ 

‘There isn’t.’

‘Tell me,
Blankenburg how do you know?’

‘Because I’ve been riding in that cab for more than an hour,’ snapped the agitated driver, ‘just go and get the gun.’

‘Gun, what gun?’ questioned Kern. 

‘The gun that’s sitting on top of the Eiffel Tower,’ he replied with anger, ‘the gun in the back of the truck of course.’ 

‘But that’s not ours.’  A heavy sigh lashed out into the chilly air, private Blankenburg was becoming more and more frustrated.