Beacon of Vengeance Page 3

  A gentle rain of fine soot slowly coated the metal railings and the tree leaves below the terrace. The usual birdsong was missing, the feeder with its stale crusts left untouched. Even the winged creatures had taken flight from the coming danger. Rumor was that Paris was now an open city, the government on the move to Tours, and no attempt would be made at defense in the hope that the advancing army would spare the ancient city further devastation. The throngs in the streets below pulsed with desperate hope and crushing despair.

  Enough was enough. She returned to her living room and drew the drapes, shutting off much of the clamor rising from the street. Another cigarette in hand, she paced the Oriental rug, then poured herself a Cognac and downed it. “Je m’en fous,” she said aloud, “it’s breakfast time, after all,” and poured herself a second.

  Around midnight, after her family joined the surging stream of refugees, she had made her way home through the crowded streets. At first many motorized vehicles had clogged the narrow rues and broad boulevards, their horns urging aside the less fortunate on foot. Under the dim glow of the streetlamps automobiles and farm trucks rolled through, burdened by mattresses and fully-laden trunks and baskets. Heavy furniture and household goods covered every available surface, and some passengers took to the running boards to make more room for personal possessions. Motorcycles carried impossible loads yet somehow stayed upright, their headlamps casting bluish beams in the smoky pre-dawn air.

  The citizens of the great city joined the trudging refugees from the north in ever greater numbers, an exhausted, relentless parade of sorrow and numbed anger. Marita had never witnessed such a crowd. Paris will surely be empty soon, she thought. The few remaining vehicles now moved at the same sluggish pace as the foot traffic, but still the horns blared and bicycle bells clanged. The people came relentlessly with their peasant carts and baby carriages, refuse wagons and hand carts, all filled to overflowing. A hearse moved through the crowd, small children peering from behind the black curtains. Peasants drove livestock before them—cattle, pigs, sheep and goats, and others led horses or mules burdened with cages of squawking chickens and cooing pigeons. To reach her apartment Marita had followed an ox-cart piled high with household goods and grand-mère sitting unceremoniously atop on her rocking chair. Dogs ran freely in the sea of legs, yapping at all the excitement, dodging citizen and peasant, army deserter and released lunatic, nun and priest, even the occasional gendarme, concerned only with saving his own skin.

  Marita would remain in Paris come what might, but for the moment she was relieved to know her parents and her sister Marie were already well ahead of this massive exodus. With a head start on what must have become a mob of millions fleeing south, they would surely have reached the train station and be heading safely out of the city toward a new life overseas. But the separation had been anything but smooth.

  “Sheer folly, Marita—can you even imagine what they’ll do to you?” Her father’s raspy voice betrayed hours of argument. Her mother remained silent as was her way, lost in her own thoughts as she packed traveling clothes in a suitcase. “Marie, convince your little sister,” he said at last, “perhaps she’ll listen to you.”

  “Do come along, Marita; without you they’ll die of worry before we’re out of the city.” Marie smiled weakly at her younger sibling and business partner, going through the motions, knowing her words were wasted.

  “Tell you what,” conceded Marita, both sisters knowing the lie, “the three of you get to the Gare de Lyon; leave right now—it’s just past eleven and things will only worsen with all the refugees. Take any train south—bribe someone if you have to—just get out of here. I have to get to the club to shut everything down and empty the safe; we’ll need every franc for the ship passage once we get to Marseille. I’ll follow any way I can, and we’ll rendezvous down south.”

  “And how do you propose finding us in a strange city?” Her father glared, knowing his daughter all too well. “You know they could rape you, or even kill you, which is most likely.” Her mother’s face expressed shock at his language, but she turned back to packing, distractedly shoving aside the first over-stuffed case and opening an empty valise.

  “First of all, I know these Boches. They’ve been frequenting the club for years now, and we know how to ply them with drink and keep them happy, right Marie?” Her sister wanted nothing more to do with the argument and turned to help their mother pack. “After a day or two they’ll be lining up at the door for champagne and to squeeze a few firm breasts again.” Her mother gasped but said nothing, shaking her head in disgust at Marita’s candor. “But second, in answer to your question, Papa, leave a letter for me poste restante the moment you get to Marseille, main post office. I’ll check daily when I arrive—just tell me where you’re staying and I’ll find you.”

  “Maman, leave it be now,” Marie said, exhausted by everything, “you’re packing far too much for any of us to carry. We’ll buy new things in Provence, just wait and see.” Their mother surveyed the room, taking in all that was to remain behind. She reached for a framed portrait of the girls still in pig-tails, still innocent, and added it to the bulging suitcase before storming from the room with a handkerchief at her eyes.

  “Marita, just listen to me.” Her father bent down to look her in the eye and spoke softly. “My father told me what the Huns did here in ’70. They starved us out—we’d already eaten the rats, you know. I simply can’t leave my daughter to such brutality!” He turned away to hide his tears.

  “Papa! Please don’t worry; I know what I’m doing, so trust me.”

  He turned back. “Then we’ll all stay to face them, and that’s final.”

  “We’ve been over all this before. My American friend made it clear three years ago—these Nazis will wipe out all the Jews, and that means Maman. And Marie…and me, too, if they find out. So I’ll be right behind you. Ryan stole proof of their plans from Berlin way back then.”

  “For all the good it seems to have done.” Marie shook her head. She remembered well the handsome American with the resonant voice and broad smile who had enthralled her little sister for years. “What became of him, anyway?”

  “We lost contact.” Marita lowered her eyes, momentarily lost in thought, then shook her head of memories and moved on. “But the fact remains—none of us is safe here,” she gave her sister a knowing glance, “so the three of you need to get going, and now!”

  Her father merely scowled.

  “Come on, Papa, do you think I have a death wish?”

  “I assume that’s rhetorical?”

  “I promise I’ll join you when I can, even if it’s not till Palestine.”

  “Marita, you’ve always been the best at working truth to your advantage. I actually love that about you… proof of an agile mind when used with good intent.” He dropped to the couch, his hands dangling between his knees and addressed his words to the carpet. “You’ll follow along all right, but only when it suits you.” For a long minute he remained sitting, thinking. “But I know words are wasted now and time’s short, and it’s up to me to look after your mother and sister, so we’ll leave without you.” He rose again to hug her, kissing the top of her head. “Be safe, my little Marianne, be safe.”

  It had been years since he had used her given name. He turned abruptly and left to find his wife. She heard him blow his nose once out of sight.

  “Here, take this—you’ll need it,” Marita handed Marie a thick envelope. “It’s most of the cash from the office safe and most of my savings, too. You have all your valuables?”

  Marie nodded and patted the pocket of her coat. “I just knew you had already taken what you could from the office. But what’ll you live on without this?” Marie reached for her sister’s arm and drew her close. “You need to think of yourself for once now.”

  “The club will make that up in no time, and we’ve got good inventory to make it several weeks. Besides, I’ve held out enough to get by without this.” She put an arm around Marie�
��s waist. “Just keep them both safe, leave that letter for me in Marseille telling where you’ve headed, and get out of France. And do it quickly. Ryan knew this was coming, and I’ve known for some time what I must do.”

  There had been no long good-byes, just hugs all around and a final slow shake of the head from her father as he conceded her the victory. She felt the lump of sorrow in her throat as her family joined the sad migration down the dark street, three more refugees hoping to escape before the worst arrived.

  By morning the last straggling fugitives were gone from the city when the first German scouts appeared, handsome young men in field-gray uniforms on motorcycles, gunning their engines in sorties up the broad avenues and narrow rues. Next came the armored columns boasting impressive machines of war, and then at last the marching rank and file soldiers in splendid well-cut uniforms, their shiny boots pounding the Parisian streets to the strident martial airs of the brass bands, their bodies and faces fit and healthy. Nazi photographers and film makers recorded it all for posterity and propaganda.

  Many café owners lowered their shutters and hid inside, while others swung doors wide to welcome the conquerors with offers of free drinks. Wehrmacht vehicles plied the streets, scattering leaflets announcing that Italy had joined the war against France. There was no raping and pillaging, for Hitler and Goebbels had ordered best behavior. The whole world watched, and the Nazis would show everyone they weren’t really barbarians. Besides, they would need the French economy to support their martial goals elsewhere and wanted cooperation from the populace.

  By afternoon rain began to fall, tears dampening the great city. And Marita also wept.

  Aging and scattered, Geneviève Pateu had known Marita’s parents for years, had watched the girls grow and mature, and had suffered along with her mother when both young daughters had thrown propriety to the wind to dance in the cabarets and later own a night club. The Pateus had always occupied the ground-floor flat just below Marita’s parents’ apartment. Monsieur Pateu had survived the Franco-Prussian war and the Great War, only to awaken one night spewing blood across the sheets and perish within minutes from a burst artery. He left Madame to look after Frou-Frou their Persian cat and dispense the neighborhood gossip. With the great exodus as the Germans took Paris she had herded the furry beast into an old bird cage and joined the procession south, and as luck would have it, she encountered Marita’s family at the Gare de Lyon.

  A week later she showed up at Marita’s door to share the story of their exodus with no commiserating preamble to soften the blow.

  “My dearest Marita, I must tell you that your sweet family is gone.”

  “Yes, I know. I saw them off myself.”

  “No, my little one, they are dead. The Boches killed them all.”

  Marita shook her head uncontrollably from side to side in disbelief. “But no! That’s not possible—how can that be? Are you certain?”

  “I’m so sorry, Marita, yes, all three perished.”

  Marita grabbed at the doorway to steady herself, then slid to the threshold. Madame Pateu helped her back to her feet and led her inside to the couch, then went to the kitchen to prepare tea while Marita sobbed. When the old woman returned with a tray in hand, Marita found the strength to ask for details.

  “No seats were available at the station. In fact, many trains sat idle on the tracks, their crews gone. And people shoved and pushed and even fought with fists to find any place on board. It was a madhouse, and your dear father refused to participate, so the four of us tramped out of the city on foot at first light. The tedium was indescribable, step by step, kilometer at a time, no food, no water, just horrible.”

  “But, Madame Pateu, what happened to my parents, what of Marie?”

  “I’m getting to that, my dear. Have patience with an old woman—it’s all so horrible to relive.”

  “Of course, Madame Pateu.” Marita could barely force words through her tears. “Please go on.”

  “We left the outskirts of the city and were into the country when your distraught mother complained of her sore feet. Marie did her best to console her as your father marched ahead. The wealthy ones pushed forward in their automobiles, honking and furiously yelling at us to get out of their way.”

  “My family, Madame Pateu?” Her eyes were so swollen she could barely see the wrinkled visage of the old woman. “What of my family? Please!” She came close to screaming.

  “Yes, my dear, I’m getting there. One fancy car tried to drive around us refugees and became stuck in a ditch, and the people robbed them of their food and possessions until those wealthy types were no better than the rest of us and joined the procession on foot. There were many soldiers as well, hiding in the crowds and carrying no weapons.”

  “But, Madame… my family. How did they die?”

  “I’m almost there, Marita, but do know that I did all I could for them.” Now the older woman was also sobbing.

  “I’m sure you did, Madame Pateu.” She steadied herself, forced the question yet again: “Tell me what happened.”

  “They came from the north at our backs, those airplanes with their infernal whining sirens and their machine guns and bombs, trying to mow down everyone, civilian and soldier alike. We all fell to the ground and covered our heads, or ran—those of us able to run, of course—to the roadside ditches for shelter, but they strafed the road and there was blood everywhere, possessions everywhere, and the dead. And then they circled round and came at us again. I stumbled and fell and a man dropped atop me and I couldn’t move. Then the planes were gone and I dragged myself free and saw the man had a hole in his forehead, and I went to find your dear parents and they lay crumpled together and your father held your mother in his arms, rocking and moaning. And then he died, too, but of a broken heart, I’m sure, since I saw no wounds.” She blew with great force into her lace-trimmed handkerchief. “I’m so sorry, my dear Marita, so very sorry. I did what I could, but I had to go look for Frou-Frou.”

  They sat on the couch shoulder to shoulder and cried softly. Finally Marita reached over and took the old woman in her arms and held her close. “And Marie? What became of my sister Marie?”

  “I looked for her along the road, and then there she was, leaning against a tree and staring at the sky, and I ran to speak with her. Your beautiful sister…the plane had taken her legs and blood was everywhere. I said a prayer for her and closed her eyes. And then I looked for Frou-Frou’s birdcage, and my dear kitty cried pitifully but was safe. And many were turning back and others were forging on, but Frou-Frou and I decided to walk back home.”

  “Those dancer’s legs…those dancer’s legs.” Her loss piercing deep into her heart, Marita loosed a plaintive wail.

  They sat a long while. The tea remained untouched. And then Madame Pateu excused herself and kissed Marita and left to feed her cat.

  Marita’s stubborn will had forced her family to leave the city. The decision had felt so right and proven so wrong. In wishing to spare them she managed to condemn them all to a horrifying death. She left her apartment to wander about aimlessly in the silence of her parent’s empty flat, and she cried until no further tears would come. Hours later she returned home, determined to fight the enemy who had destroyed her family using whatever tools it took, acknowledging she would carry the burden of guilt forever.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Berlin, Germany

  23 July 1940

  The maître d’ of the Hotel Kaiserhof in Berlin discretely confirmed Rolf von Haldheim’s identity before guiding him to a private booth in the rear of the restaurant. The fussy, balding man cast a stern eye on each of his waiters as he moved through this dining establishment most favored by the Nazi elite. An aide in Kriegsmarine uniform standing in front of a curtained table pulled the drape aside to reveal Admiral Wilhelm Canaris, idly stirring a half-consumed martini.

  Rolf immediately recognized the somewhat short, gray-haired man with the intense blue eyes. This brilliant, cultured, unreadable Chief
of the Abwehr, the Reich’s military intelligence arm, was said to be at constant odds with the Sicherheitsdienst, the intelligence wing of the SS and the Nazi Party. Rolf had worked with the SD for half a decade. In fact, many suspected the Admiral’s files held damaging information on Heydrich and Himmler that kept both powers at bay and permitted Canaris a free hand in his operations.

  “Herr Sturmbahnführer, thank you for coming.” They shook hands. “Please join me.” Rolf slid into the booth across from his host. “A cocktail?”

  “A martini would suit me just fine,” Rolf said.

  “Word has it you favor champagne,” Canaris smiled and signaled his aide, “much like our dear English friend, Mr. Churchill.” He emptied his drink and signaled the junior officer before returning to his guest.

  “I do enjoy Sekt on occasion, but a decent gin martini is hard to beat.” Rolf felt at ease, back in the genteel company of the upper class and away from the crassness and venality of his Sicherheitsdienst colleagues. “May I ask to what I owe the pleasure of this invitation, Herr Admiral?”

  “All in good time, Major, all in good time. Allow me first to learn a bit more about your recent experiences. I do have a proposition which may grab your interest, but first we must see if we find one other sympatisch.”

  Having given the waiter the drinks order, the aide hovered outside the booth again. Canaris flicked his fingers and the curtains closed to provide them privacy. “Tell me about your family.”

  Rolf hesitated, startled by the unexpected question and unsure just how much the Admiral already knew. A test of commitment to the Reich? He chose honesty, for surely a man at the top of the intelligence field had done his due diligence before hosting a meeting. “I now believe my parents are no longer among the living. The von Haldheim clan is of venerable and aristocratic stock— over a thousand years’ commitment to Germany—but my parents crossed the wrong people in ’38 and disappeared.”