GARDEN OF BEASTS - Book review

 

 

Jeffery Deaver’s standalone book – ‘A novel of Berlin 1936’ - was published in 2004 and it’s an interesting departure from his normal suspense psychological thrillers.

Paul Schumann is a mobster hitman who only kills those who deserve to die. ‘Committing an evil act to eliminate a greater evil’ (p93). Unfortunately his latest hit goes wrong and he is caught and given a choice: he can go to Berlin and kill Ernst, one of Hitler’s top men responsible for rearmament, or opt for the electric chair. A no-brainer.

Once in Berlin, however, things go awry and he is being hunted by a dogged Berlin Kripo detective Kohl. The depth of detail for the period is very impressive and never swamps the story.

Paul learns a great deal about the new Germany under Hitler who took power a mere three years earlier.  The SS ‘were originally Hitler’s guard detail. Now they’re another private army. The Gestapo is the secret police force, plainclothes. They’re small in number but very dangerous. Their jurisdiction is political crimes mostly. But in Germany now anything can be a political crime. You spit on the sidewalk, it’s an offense to the honor of the Leader so off you go to prison or a concentration camp.’ (p79)

Interior Minister Göring ‘ordered every policeman to carry a weapon to use them liberally. He’d
actually issued an edict saying that a policeman should be reprimanded for failing to shoot a suspect, but not for shooting someone who turned out to be innocent.’ (p84)

Kohl and his fellow policemen found it difficult to do their jobs particularly when interviewing potential witnesses: ‘since Hitler had come to power blindness had become the national malady…’ (p89)

Paul befriends his landlady Käthe and she tells him about her boyfriend who was brutally murdered by National Socialists in front of her near the lake in the Tiergarten, the Garden of Beasts. Just one more piece of evidence against the evil regime.

Deaver creates characters you sympathise with and believe in and fear for their safety in the treacherous state of the Third Reich. The claustrophobic environment, where children will betray parents to the authorities, where jobs, livelihoods and even lives could be forfeit if you don’t acquiesce, where freedom of speech is trampled upon: it must have been terrible to live there then. (Imagine how bad it could have been with the social media trolls and cancel brigade!)

A riveting page-turning thriller with a couple of neat twists – Deaver’s hallmark – and a satisfying resolution.

Recommended.

Book review plus - LIFE IN RUSSIA

Michael Binyon’s view of Russia, published in 1983 is useful for my research purposes, as I certainly wasn’t able to go there at the time (since I was serving in the RN). Binyon was a correspondent for The Times 1978-1982.

Naturally, since the wall came down in November 1989 and the USSR dissolved in December 1991, much has changed. Yet the people are probably not that different now.

The book is written with genuine warmth for the Russian people. He uses the term ‘Russian’ to simplify the fact that the USSR is a vast mixture of countries, cultures and ethnic groups. Some of the statements are prescient, though at the time of writing Binyon never conceived the breakup would occur. ‘The Soviet Union is a world of its own. But it is a world its rulers ever fear will fly apart into disparate fragments unless they keep a very tight grip.’ (p4)  Here and elsewhere, with hindsight you could easily substitute the European Union to observe strong parallels!

The recent doping scandal relating to the Olympics springs to mind when I read this entry:

 ‘Russians respect power and authority, and most have a bully’s instinct to walk all over anyone who is servile and obsequious. The best way of doing business is to make your position and determination clear from the start, negotiate toughly but politely and ensure that face is not lost…’ (p4)

And this has bearing, perhaps: ‘To a Russian, saving face is of great importance, and this Eastern characteristic colours not only individual actions but policies and attitudes in dealing with other countries. Indeed, many national policies can only be understood by reference to the Russian character.’ (p136)

For many years I was puzzled by the British trade unions’ affectionate dalliance with the USSR. Naturally, the Soviet authorities were keen to foster disruption in the West, and even suborned certain trade union members to do their bidding. Yet the picture, beyond the ‘official’ image presented to visiting union comrades was far removed from the freedoms enjoyed in the West:

‘Not one of the estimated 130 million Soviet trade unionists has ever gone on strike.’ (p27) One has not to wonder why. In 1977 a number of sacked workers got together to form an ‘independent’ union. The KGB exiled the leaders from Moscow, questioned, harassed, arrested and sent several to psychiatric hospitals. Three years later, the rise of Poland’s Solidarity movement caused Brezhnev to launch an attack on union officials for laziness and indifference to their members’ needs, turning the union leaders against their unions, using the unions to police their members in effect, for the communist cause. This was typical Russian double-think.

The union can be a deadening influence, stifling innovation, free thinking. ‘The task of the officially organised unions of artists, writers and musicians is not to promote their members’ interests, but to ensure their members stay in line.’ (p113) ‘All land in the Soviet Union is nationalised’; people can own homes, but not the land.

The propaganda had it that the country benefited from full employment. Yet there were thousands of workshy (many with false documents who have abandoned families and responsibilities). ‘Factories are only too glad when poor and disruptive workers quietly disappear. Rather than report their absence,  they allow their names to remain on the factory register, thus conveniently enabling the factory to draw state money for salaries, which are diverted straight into the management’s pockets to be used for the inevitable bribes and pay-offs.’ (p33)

I wonder how many 1980s Marxist-Leninist students would have been keen to study in the USSR. ‘University or college graduates are sent to remote villages for the obligatory two year first posting which every Soviet student faces at the end of his studies. For many, it is like banishment.’ (p196)

I was also interested to read: ‘The Academy of Medical Sciences has long been carrying out full-scale research into para-psychology, telepathy and bio-rhythms, a favourite topic of popular scientific journalism.’ (p53) See my earlier blog posts on Soviet psychic research.

Drunkenness was a big problem and accounted for absenteeism and accidental deaths, and marital and family breakdown.  ‘In the Ukraine, several mines run daily checks for inebriation among the miners as they report for work. Traffic police have also urged tougher penalties for drunken driving, which is already severely punished, and in recent years a number of people causing fatal accidents while drunk have been shot.’ (p63) Severe punishment indeed – but did it reduce the incidence of drunk driving? The book doesn’t say – and doubtless statistics were not available.

The Russians are avid readers, though found it difficult to get their hands on books (other than official tracts, presidential speeches and the like. I can’t imagine poets filling Wembley Stadium, yet Poet Andrei Voznesensky gave a reading to 80,000 people in a football stadium. ‘His latest collection was published in an edition of 200,000 and sold out immediately.’ (p109) Sales to dream about, indeed!

Voznesensky would retreat to the Georgian village of Peredelkino, south of Moscow. This is the official writers’ colony. Pasternak lived here for many years and is buried in its cemetery. Binyon spotted a man in a grey raincoat standing near the monument (to Sergei Yesenin, poet, Isadora Duncan’s lover); the man took off his hat and recited some of Yesenin’s poems. Others present clapped. This echoed in my mind – scenes from Fahrenheit 451.

Greek myths and Herodotus were best-sellers; new editions of Tolstoy sold out immediately. ‘Even during the anniversaries of Tolstoy’s birth, or Dostoyevsky’s, their works could not be found. Pushkin, Gogol hard to find…The most heavily forested country in the world has to limit its newspapers to four or six pages because of the paper shortage… painful lack of toilet paper, a commodity that has achieved an almost mystic value to those who tire of the discomfort and irony of using Pravda..’ (p170)

Surprisingly, perhaps, the Soviet press was campaigning, hard-hitting and effective, not afraid to hound racketeers and the guilty – according to the party line. Appeals in the paper Pravda could work: a resident of a village where the only shop was closed complained; a party delegation investigated and within hours a shop was opened there…

Soviet historians estimate 20 million Russians perished in The Great Patriotic War (WWII). In the Ukraine alone 20,000 villages were destroyed. ‘Even now at least half a dozen elderly people are shot each year for war crimes or collaboration with the Nazis.’ (p125)

Party members and grandmothers alike state: ‘Let there be no more war’ and the toast at every official dinner is always ‘to peace’. I’d be inclined to believe that this is still the same now; the people don’t want war, but they don’t want to be walked over either…

Binyon wrote about the little Byelorussian village of Khatyn where The Black Death SS herded 74 adults and 75 children into a barn, doused it with petrol and set it alight. One man was away at the time; Joseph Kaminski returned to find his young still alive among the charred bodies. He picked him up and the boy died in his father’s arms… a bronze statue of Kaminski carrying his dying son and staring in blank horror straight ahead stands at the entrance to Khatyn (where nobody now lives).  This is not to be confused with Katyn, where Polish officers were massacred by Stalin! (p126)

Most Russians accepted the official version of the war: it was a Russian victory over fascism, and the Soviet intervention in Manchuria forced the Japanese to surrender; there was no mention of the atomic bombs… Little or nothing was ‘said or written about the extensive American war aid, or the British convoys to Murmansk. No official memorial has been erected in that Arctic city to the allied sailors who lost their lives.’ (p127) [Since this was written, Russia pressed for the Arctic convoy veterans to be honoured with a Russian medal, but government intransigence didn’t permit it – until 2013, a year after they were belatedly presented with the British Arctic Star.]

Binyon refers to a book Through Russia on a Mustang (1891) by Thomas Stevens and offers a brief excerpt, which offers traditions, beliefs, and adventures of a witty character. It was out of print when quoted. Happily, there are several reprints available now; here’s one

There’s a brief mention of Mikhail Gorbachev, ‘the young agricultural expert in the politburo, has distanced himself from the food programme, and is presumed to have pushed for something more radical.’ (p199)

The following two passages strongly suggest the malaise that is the European Union (replace ‘communist party’ and Soviet Union with ‘EU’, perhaps: ‘The communist party is a single, monolithic organisation, and local government has only limited powers. But the Soviet Union is the world’s largest and most diverse multi-national state, and without a very firm structure and tight control at the centre, it would probably split apart into dozens of separate competing units. Regional and ethnic nationalism is strong and is growing, and despite the much-trumpeted official picture of a big, happy, harmonious family, there are tensions and quarrels beneath the surface, which are suppressed only with difficulty.’ (p206)

‘From travels in nine different republics, my impressions were strongly reinforced that the diversity and variety is such that no amount of centralisation can mould a single type of ‘Soviet man’, even if that were the aim – which increasingly is recognised as unrealistic.’ (p206) Homogenising people doesn’t work – they have their culture, belief systems, traditions and history.

Another example comes from Latvia: Russians, Ukrainians and Belorussians flooded into Riga because of the higher standard of living, and brought Russification in their wake. When the non-Latvian population reached 800,000 out of a total of only 2,500,000 in all Latvia, further immigration was stopped.’ (211) Freedom of movement within the USSR (by party pressure) created an immigrant crisis.

And we’ve seen how Russia deals with the fundamentalist Islamic issue. The State’s atheism does not sit comfortably with Islam.  ‘Science and Religion said the home mosques supported social customs that were incompatible with modern social life, including blood feuds, the abduction of brides, the marriage of underage girls and polygamy…’ (p245)

This is a fascinating and thought-provoking book, a glance back in time, when the Cold War was thawing then heating up, as East and West attempted to accommodate the other, neither side wanting more global conflict. The Soviet Union could not sustain its vast empire and it took the realist Gorbachev to understand that. What followed was another completely different ball game – but throughout the period, from the time of this book to the present, the Russian people have found the changes in their lives bewildering and unsettling. Certainly, the independent states seem keen not to go back.

Book of the film - Schindler's Ark

Thomas Keneally’s book was published in 1982; its title for the US publication was Schindler’s List. It won the Booker Prize for the same year, though there were ripples of controversy regarding its selection for this fiction prize. Despite it being referred to as a novel, it is far from that: it is a relatively early example of narrative nonfiction (sometimes called creative nonfiction). The writer employs all the tools of fiction, applying them to factual events and real individuals.

Keneally states in his Author’s Note: ‘To use the texture and devices of a novel to tell a true story is a course which has frequently been followed in modern writing. It is one I have chosen to follow here; both because the craft of the novelist is the only craft to which I can lay claim, and because the novel’s techniques seem suited for a character of such ambiguity and magnitude as Oskar. I have attempted to avoid all fiction, though, since fiction would debase the record, and to distinguish between reality and the myths… Sometimes it has been necessary to attempt to construct conversations of which Oskar and others have left only the briefest record… But most exchanges and conversations and all events, are based on the detailed recollections of the Schindler Jews, of Schindler himself, and of other witnesses to Oskar’s acts of outrageous rescue.’

In effect, Keneally succeeds beautifully. The documentary feel about it is perhaps appropriate for the subject matter.

 

It’s probable that Oskar Schindler needs no introduction these days, thanks to this book, subsequent books and of course the Oscar-winning Spielberg film, Schindler’s List (1993).

 

Briefly, before the war, Schindler worked for the Abwehr, the Nazi party’s intelligence service, where he build up a number of contacts who proved useful to him when he began an enamelware business in Cracow, taking over the Rekord works, renaming it Deutsche Email Fabrik (DEF) [email before e-mail, indeed!] His factory employed about 1,700, a thousand of them being Jews. Initially, he seemed driven by the profit motive, when he wasn’t cheating on his wife and also drinking to excess.

Then war descended upon Poland and, gradually, he saw and heard of the inhuman treatment meted out to the Jews by the German invaders and many Poles. He addressed a number of newly recruited workers: ‘You’ll be safe working here. If you work here, then you’ll live through the war.’ He was a big imposing man, and yet many wondered how he could make such a promise. Didn’t he know what was happening all around? His tone commanded belief.

Schindler seemed to be an uncanny judge of character. SS Oberfuhrer Julian Scherner would ‘sometimes be discovered wearing the smirk of his unexpected power like a childish jam-stain in the corner of his mouth. He was always convivial and dependably heartless. Oskar could tell that Scherner favoured working the Jews rather than killing them, that he would bend rules for the sake of profit…’ (p91) Often, Oskar had to deal with and bribe men in authority, and always got what he wanted.

SS Hauptsturmfuhrer Amon Goeth was the commandant of the Kraków-Plaszów concentration camp, which he had built by forced labour; here Oskar’s workers were forced to live.

‘Oskar had the characteristic salesman’s gift of treating men he abhorred as if they were soul brothers, and it would deceive the Herr Commandant so completely that Amon would always believe Oskar a friend… Oskar despised Goeth in the simplest and most passionate terms. His contempt would grow without limit and his career would dramatically demonstrate it.’ (p164)

Goeth was a psychotic killer, who thought nothing of leaning out of his window and shooting to death a passing worker in the camp. Oskar had the measure of him, however, and during one of their drinking sessions together, he risked Amon Goeth’s murderous ire: ‘… acting out of an amity which, even with this much cognac aboard, did not go beyond the surface of the skin, merely a sort of frisson, a phantom shiver of brotherhood running along the pores, nothing more – Oskar, leaning towards Amon and cunning as a demon, began to tempt him towards restraint.’ (216) And it seemed that Goeth became magnanimous, no longer arbitrarily murdering people.

Oskar’s deviousness knew no bounds. He constantly risked his position, his business, all his money and his life by protecting his workers. There is an allusion to good soldier Schweik, a First World War character created by Jaroslav Hasek, ‘to foul up the system’ (p229). That was Oskar’s Czech ancestry. Schweik bamboozled authority with his comic incompetence, puncturing pomposity and highlighting military stupidity (my copy of The Good Soldier Schweik and His Fortunes in the World War translated by Cecil Parrot proved useful in my research for The Prague Papers!)

There are many painful and memorable moments in this book. Take, for example, the three-year-old child. Even at that age she had her vanities – ‘a passionately preferred colour. Red. She sat there in red cap, red coat, small red boots…’ (p100) – more of which anon.

Rumours in closed societies can be debilitating, dangerous and destructive. Whispers about salt mines, being buried alive… ‘All this hearsay, much of which reached Oskar, was based on a human instinct to prevent the evil by voicing it; to forestall the fates by showing them that you could be as imaginative as they. But that June all the worst of the dreams and whispers took concrete form and the most unimaginable rumour became fact.’ While out horse riding, Oskar witnessed the clearing of part of the ghetto, and he saw a little girl, a toddler, being shepherded with the doomed men and women by SS guards, and the toddler was wearing a small scarlet coat and cap. Before moving out of sight, the child witnessed abhorrent brutality and murder. Afterwards, Oskar realised that the culprits ‘permitted witnesses, such witnesses as the red toddler, because they believed all the witnesses would perish too.’  (p123)

Even disallowing the moral dimension, it beggared belief that the Nazi war machine would squander so many resources on the ‘Final Solution’, diverting transport, troops, administrators, and weapons in their insane mission of extermination.

Eventually, towards the end of the war, Oskar realised he had to move his workforce out of Poland before they were selected for the crematoria. Not without much conniving, effort, and payment – kilos of tea, leather shoes, carpets, coffee, canned fish – he arranged for his Jews to be transferred to a factory in Moravia. A list was created and the authorities sanctioned the move for all on the list. There was privation and despair before they all finally arrived at the new factory, however...

 
Ultimately, Oskar saved 1,200 Jews by employing them– and he was such a con-man that they never produced one item that aided the German war effort. At the time of liberation, those he saved spread to countries round the world.

Keneally’s book is moving without lurching into sentimentality, and provides many psychological insights, some touched upon in the few quotations above. The writing is at times almost poetic: ‘… without the evidence of the crematoria, the dead could offer no witness, were a whisper behind the wind, an inconsequential dust on the aspen leaves.’

 
The film condenses much of the book, starkly in black-and-white – save for that shot of the little girl in red. The presence of Liam Neeson as Oskar dominates the screen. The other characters are faithfully acted, notably Ben Kinglsey as Itshak Stern, Oskar’s accountant and conscience, and Ralph Fiennes is horribly real as Goeth.
 
This film should be viewed at least once in a lifetime.
 
And this book should be read, too.

When Oskar Schindler died in 1974, ‘he was mourned in every nation.’ (p401).  

Hammer and Honey

For many years I’ve wanted to write a WWII Resistance thriller. It seems that I’m gradually working up to it. The recent short story win with ‘Codename Gaby’ is my second story of that period of heroism and betrayal. My first was published in the Coastal Press in 2007 and was inspired by the fact that in France old soldiers are afforded respect and gratitude by the populace.

HAMMER AND HONEY


Smart and imposing in their blue uniforms, two traffic policemen stood on the small concrete island in the centre of the congested Paris crossroads. Suddenly, the elderly gendarme saluted an old man who shambled past on the western boulevard’s pavement. The old man didn’t acknowledge the mark of respect. Perhaps he hadn’t noticed.

‘Emile,’ the younger gendarme asked, ‘why did you salute that old guy? Was he an ex-Commissioner of Police?’

‘No he wasn’t, Henri. But he deserves my respect, nevertheless. In fact, all Paris should salute Monsieur Meline. In France, we honour our old war heroes while across La Manche their government and youth mug them...’

This was Emile Girard’s last day of duty and young Henri was his replacement. Emile was due to attend his retirement party later that evening at Le Chat restaurant. ‘I don’t ask it lightly, Henri, but make sure you salute whenever you see Monsieur Meline.’

Puzzled, Henri removed his kepi and scratched his head. ‘Naturally. I only wish you wouldn’t be so mysterious.’

Pursing his thick lips, Emile blew his whistle at a frantically gesticulating Citroen driver and peremptorily stopped the traffic, oblivious of the accompanying screech of brakes and inevitable chorus of honking horns. He signed for a bent grey-haired little old lady to cross the street and while she did so he said over his shoulder, ‘Tonight, Henri, at my party, I’ll tell you all about the old man.’
***
Shoulders stooped with the weight of years and memories, Pierre Meline stopped at the wrought-iron gate entrance to the small park and glanced briefly at the noisy traffic and the aged gendarme blowing his whistle. Good old Emile, he thought, I’m going to miss him.

Slowly, his aching bones obviously causing him much discomfort, Pierre walked through the gate, the new flowers affirming rebirth in the bright and shimmering sunshine.

Ah, Paris in Spring! His spirits soared, if only briefly.

Lowering himself onto an empty wooden bench, Pierre pulled out an orange from the pocket of his careworn jacket and expertly opened a penknife and expertly peeled the fruit.

Memories peeled back, too, of a time when he had been a strong young man...
***
‘This is Miel,’ said the underground network’s leader.

Miel was her code-name, the only name they would ever know her by, which had been bestowed upon her by some wag in Baker Street in recognition of her fluent and honeyed rendering of the French language.

Pierre Meline just stared.

Apparently, she was half-French and half-English and, apart from the fact that she had been landed by Lysander earlier this evening, that was all they knew about her.

He thought that her diluted French blood still showed in her deportment and those high aristocratic cheekbones. Her ancestors obviously fled the guillotine by crossing La Manche and settling there in England. But he could forgive her even that historic betrayal as long as he could gaze on her short curling auburn hair and intelligent glinting hazel eyes that didn’t seem to miss much.

Introductions consisted of code-names only. Pierre was Marteau.
***
Lucy Hardy’s eyes met Marteau’s and her legs suddenly went very weak. He was as short as her yet carried himself so well he appeared taller. Cheeks and chin were covered in what appeared to be perpetual stubble which gave him a down-cast appearance, which would doubtless help him to melt into any crowd, which was all to the good, considering Le Marteau – the hammer – was the French Resistance’s most deadly assassin. He was very proficient, ensuring that his victims all appeared to die in accidents, thus avoiding recriminations against the local populace. Yet his dark brown eyes were gentle, belying his deadly calling. She saw pain and compassion there and her heart fluttered. She had never before experienced such a strong and instant attraction to a man.

Mentally shaking herself, Lucy stepped forward and shook hands with Marteau and the four other men.

As a member of the Special Operations Executive, she’d been sent to form two elite explosives teams to destroy railway bridges and transport in preparation for the invasion, though Colonel Buckmaster obviously wasn’t saying when the Allied invasion would happen. It might be this April, 1943 or much later. Probably much later, she thought. But the sabotage teams needed to be trained and in place and ready to go whenever they were called upon. That was her job.

Lucy had no illusions about her chances of survival. Several other women – usually wireless operators – hadn’t returned to Baker Street. But she was undeterred and more determined than ever to ‘do her bit’ against the evil menace that threatened to thrust Europe back into the Dark Ages when fear alone ruled.

Over the next few months Lucy trained two teams of men in the art of blowing up things. She had learned her skills well in the highlands of Scotland a mere eleven months earlier. Then, it had seemed unreal. Now, she was in earnest. Lives were at stake. Every day she had to be vigilant. There were passwords to be used and lookouts to be posted and contacts to be trusted.

Betrayal was their biggest fear and cost lives. Brave people of so many underground networks had been informed on; then the Gestapo had dragged them away to Avenue Foch or some other dark basement where they suffered for their country, their ideals and their friends. Baker Street experts told every agent not to talk for at least forty-eight hours, as this would give the rest of the network time to get away. Fine, in theory... Betrayal was inevitable under those dark, lonely and sinister circumstances. After all, those who resisted were not super-human – just flesh and blood.

Time and again Lucy found herself being drawn to Marteau in their clandestine meetings in barns and under bridges. She felt sure that he was attracted to her too. But there was a war to fight and this was no time to go falling in love. She had a job to do.

These sensible arguments ran through her head each night that she lay restive in bed after she had returned from a meeting with Marteau. She knew that personal involvement could seriously affect the stability of their network. She must act responsibly. Certain emotions had to be held in check. She almost weakened during one unguarded moment as Marteau had whispered, ‘When this is all over, cheri, I would like to take you to my apartment – the view is magnificent.’

‘I would like that too,’ she had replied levelly though she felt her heart hammering.

‘You honour all my countrymen by fighting with us,’ he had said, kissing the back of her hand. Then he had slid away into the enveloping darkness.

Clearly, he would not take advantage of her. He respected her too much. In fact, Lucy had earned the respect of all of the Frenchmen she trained. On two terrible nights she had been out on raids and risked her life to bring back injured men – well, boys, really. Neither was more than nineteen, she knew. But that was not unusual. Even schoolchildren helped the Resistance. And everyone feared the reprisals. It was no wonder that there was treachery from time to time.
***
The woman was returning from a secret rendezvous, a parcel of fresh meat under her arm, when Lucy stepped out from concealment, the leaves of the bush rustling. ‘Have you been somewhere interesting, Adele?’ Lucy asked.

‘I might have,’ snapped Adele, gazing haughtily down her nose. ‘What is it to you, courtisane?’

Adele wasn’t the only woman in the area who believed that Lucy slept with all the men she trained and fought alongside. Lucy bit her lip, ignoring the insult, and stepped forward. Her mouth was dry. She didn’t like doing what she must do, but she had suspected Adele for weeks now. The presence of the black-market meat clinched it. The best trade for food was either money or information – and Adele didn’t have any money – and sex was rarely a good bartering tool. There could be no doubt, anyway, as she had seen Adele meeting with the SS officer.

When she had finished, Lucy wasn’t proud of herself. But it was necessary to silence the woman in order to safeguard the others. She didn’t linger, either, because she knew that Marteau was meeting the leader of another network and they were scheduled to move out five British airmen tonight. And Adele had known that too...

Her heart lurching with fear all the way, Lucy hurriedly pedalled to the secret cache behind the abandoned house. Here, she unearthed a bren-gun and shoved the weapon into the wicker basket on the front of her bicycle and covered it with a towel.

Praying she would be in time, she cycled towards the meeting-place.

Through the dark night Lucy pedalled across two fields and even carried the bicycle as she had to wade over a babbling brook.

Then, as clouds scudded away to reveal the full moon eerily lighting the treetops of the nearby forest, she wept with relief when she realised that she was almost there and she was going to be in time.

At that moment, motoring up the road a few yards below her was a convoy of two Wehrmacht personnel carriers and a staff car with Gestapo, army and SS officers.

Breathless now, her hands clammy with fear, Lucy grabbed the weapon and shoved her bike behind a bush. Hurriedly treading over dead branches and leaves, she moved forward and leaned against the trunk of a tree that overlooked the bend in the road. She was short of breath and her heart pounded against her ribcage. She braced herself.

Weapon safety off. Now all she had to do was pull the trigger. Simple, really. This was the first time that she had fired on real people. Do it! She told herself. For the others!

The bren’s stock kicked against her and the first fusillade went wild, smashing into trees to the left of the convoy, but she held steady and lowered her aim, peppering the wind-screens of the now swerving vehicles. The two personnel carriers crashed into roadside trees and the staff car slewed to the right and was abruptly upturned in a ditch.

As the troops jumped down from the rear of the personnel carriers and the officers hid behind their car, Lucy melted into the forest. She was quite satisfied. The gunshots would have been heard by Marteau and the others at their meeting-place. Now they would get away and be safe to fight the enemy another day.

The intensive search lasted all night.

Lucy was captured at dawn.
***
‘I don’t want to remember that time, Pierre,’ Lucy now said, sitting beside him in the park.

‘No, cheri, I can understand that.’ He glanced sideways at the bent grey-haired little old lady and handed her a segment of orange. She took it without comment. ‘I survived. That is what matters.’

She popped the segment into her mouth and smiled. ‘You know, it was years before I took for granted the wonderful taste of fresh fruit.’

‘Yes, me too.’ He nodded. ‘I heard about you. Even Ravensbruck could not quench your spirit.’

She had actually escaped from a bombed transport train en route to Ravensbruck and managed to find her way back to Britain. His underground cell was finally overrun but he got away to Spain. After the war she took a while to recover and by then the world had moved on. Indeed, they believed that the other was dead. Neither knew their real name so there was no possibility of organising any kind of trace; besides, there was still much secrecy after the war. She fell in love and married, but sadly their union was never blessed with children. Her dear husband had died five years past. She had nobody else. Then by chance a few weeks ago she had read about Pierre – her Marteau – being awarded yet another medal by his grateful country. Only then did she know that he too had survived.

‘We are old now, Pierre. We only have our memories – and our aching bones!’

‘No, cheri, we have something much greater. We have French blood in our veins.’ He looked askance at her and hunched his Gallic shoulders. ‘Well, half in your case, but it is dominant, no? And we have the honour to have fought in the French Underground Resistance.’

She smiled fleetingly and gazed into eyes that were now a lighter brown yet they still made her legs feel weak. ‘Honour, Pierre, in this day and age?’

He stood up a little unsteadily and bowed towards her, offering his hand. ‘But of course, Miel. May I have the honour of escorting you to my apartment? The view is still magnificent.’

She took his hand and got to her feet. ‘I had thought that you would never ask, Marteau.’

Arm in arm, they walked out of the park.
***
Emile the gendarme finally handed over to his replacement. As he reached the pavement he abruptly stopped and stared at the old man and woman who were leaving the park, strolling arm in arm. Paris, he thought, you still weave your magic, non?

END

If magazine length had allowed, I'd probably have used less exposition and addressed the point of view towards the end, but essentially this tale has to be omniscient POV to work. N