B004U2USMY EBOK

The Red Rooster

by Michael Wallace

Copyright © 2011 by Michael Wallace

original cover art by Jeroen Ten
Berge - http://jeroentenberge.com/

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Prologue:

June 2, 1940

Among the throngs fleeing the port at Dunkirk
was a young woman from Spain, seventeen years old, who wanted to
return to the front lines. She had passage across the Channel,
papers paid for with a man’s life and a small fortune in twenty
franc notes, and a cousin waiting in London. She kicked off her
shoes, gathered her dress and prepared to jump overboard.

The captain of the overburdened boat grabbed
her arm with a bandaged hand. His eyes were wild. “Stupid girl,
you’ll die, you’ll never make it.”

Gabriela barely heard him, could only think
about her father and it made her angry and afraid.

You lied. You said you were coming back
and you never meant it.

Instead, he’d left her on this shot-up
listing fishing boat, lashed to the side of the British gunboat
and crowded with children, embassy staff, and soldiers. He meant
to face the Germans without her.

“What’s wrong with you, aren’t you
listening?” the captain said. “Fine, die for all I care, I won’t
stay a minute longer.”

Gabriela braced herself and jumped.

The water was cold. She went under and into
silence. Gone were the shouting, cursing soldiers, the rumble of
artillery and the high-pitched whine of brawling fighter planes,
the British destroyers hurling shells across the water and into
the city.

She came up in a wreckage of splintered oars,
broken barrels, shoes, army jackets, papers, flailing people with
or without life jackets. The water tasted bitter, oily. An
explosion, a spout of water. Anti-aircraft fire sliced the sky
against two screaming dive-bombers. She paddled toward the beach,
and the hundreds of British and French soldiers wading into the
water.

A soldier pulled her onto the beach, asking
questions in English, what sounded like a variation of what the
fishing boat captain had been screaming.

“No, I’m going back, I need to find my
father. Let go!”

More English, two soldiers now, trying to
calm her, take her back into the water and toward the ramshackle
flotilla evacuating the beaches. Gabriela struggled and kicked and
finally they let her go. She ran barefoot across the sand, back
toward town. Burning half-tracks littered the beach, together with
overturned trucks, an aircraft fuselage, rifles tossed in piles by
fleeing soldiers. The ground shuddered, threw her down. She picked
herself up.

Her father had lied, he’d stuck his head in
the noose to save her. He’d sacrificed himself, and for what? Did
he think she’d take it?

Chapter One:

September 18, 1942

The Italian waggled his finger in Gabriela’s
face. “Eleven francs. No more.”

She extended the jade brooch until she held
it under his nose. “Please, look closer.” Gabriela fought to keep
from sounding desperate, a difficult task two years into her
nightmare. “The dragonfly wings are so delicate, and look at the
detail. How about thirteen, it’s just two more francs.”

He shook his head without looking down.
“Eleven.”

“There are other stalls, you know.”

Sure, and you’ve tried them all, haven’t
you?

A hundred other stalls, and ten thousand
people in worn shoes and threadbare socks, empty stomachs, some
with hungry children, all trying to offload their last, precious
possessions.

Gabriela owed her landlords thirty, had sold
almost everything she owned, and was down to selling half her
ration cards so she could buy food with the other half. What good
would eleven francs do? Thirteen, for that matter?

“Eleven. Take it or not.”

She pulled back her hand. “My father gave
this brooch to my mother. She’s dead. I can’t possibly sell it for
eleven francs.”

“Listen girl, nobody cares.” The voice
belonged to a woman queued behind her, holding silk scarves.
Behind her, a man with a pair of silver candlesticks who looked
suspiciously like a Jew. In the
marché aux puces,
nobody much bothered with that.

She’d seen
all types in the flea markets of Paris. Hadn’t she been here a
hundred times to sell her father’s things?
His boots,
belts, greatcoat, books of Spanish poetry, leather journals, his
watch, even paintings of mother; all brought a few precious
centimes or francs. Two weeks ago she’d sold the trunk itself,
brought from Spain.

She kept a few meager possessions, her
favorite of which was his meerschaum pipe, amber from years of
smoking. It still held the aroma of tobacco and she couldn’t smell
it without imagining him in his chair. When she came in and saw
him smoking, she could almost see the cloud of thoughts rising
above his head with the pipe smoke. He would urge her to sit down,
pull out a small wooden box of imported Belgian chocolates, and
then pontificate: rubber plantations in Ceylon, the proper ratio
of shellfish to sausage in a mixed paella, or the development of
the steam engine. It didn’t matter the subject, he was so
energetic that she would sit and listen, eating chocolates while
he gesticulated with his pipe and his latest book.

Selling the pipe would be like selling those
memories.

The stall
owner’s scowl hardened. “Eleven. Either make a deal or get the
hell out of my line. I’m busy.”

“All right, then, eleven.” She made to hand
over the brooch to the stall owner, already fumbling in his pocket
for the bills, when a young woman took her wrist.

“Eleven francs, are you crazy?” the woman
asked.

The speaker was close to Gabriela’s own age.
She had a fresh, carefree air and looked glamorous in her green
dress with dainty straps over the shoulders. Nylons, a whiff of
perfume, red lipstick, long eyelashes.

“That’s all I can get,” Gabriela said. “I’ve
tried, God help me.”

“Don’t let this man rob you. I’ll pay you
twenty, how about that?” The other girl opened her purse. She
pulled out some mixed bills that included reichsmarks and francs.
“Twenty. Do we have a deal?”

“Hey, what are you doing?” the Italian
demanded. “That’s mine, I bought it already.” He shoved his money
at Gabriela and grabbed for the brooch.

She jerked it back. “This woman says twenty.
Will you give me more?”

“Dammit, we had an agreement.” He turned his
anger to the young woman. “You, who do you think you are?”

The young woman laughed and gave a brushing
off motion. She took Gabriela’s arm and led her a few paces from
the crowd. Her heels clicked smartly on the pavement.

Gabriela worried the stall owner would pursue
them, but he was already haggling with the owner of the scarves,
while the queue of sellers patiently waited their turn. Meanwhile
the crowd swirled around them. Children, begging. Young, shiftless
men. An old war veteran in his cloak, toothless and smelling of
whiskey and sour sweat.

“I can’t believe he thought you’d take
eleven. May as well steal it. Your brooch is worth at least twice
what I offered, you know that.”

“Maybe before the war.”

The young woman held out the money. “If you
want to ask around for more, I understand. Otherwise, I’m
delighted to pay twenty. It’s a beautiful brooch.”

“No, no, I’ll take it.”

Gabriela took the twenty francs and handed
over the brooch before the girl could change her mind. She tucked
the money into her bra, glanced around to make sure she hadn’t
attracted the attention of pickpockets. Her gaze caught the
uniformed Germans who idled in the shade at the edge of the
street. The Eiffel Tower lifted behind them, topped by a swastika
flag that flapped back and forth in a lazy salute. One man smoked
a cigarette, while the other polished his rifle butt with a
handkerchief.

She was always searching for one German in
particular, the man who knew about Papá. These two were just
ordinary soldiers.

“It’s beautiful,” the girl said. “I feel so
guilty. I should have paid you more.”

“Thank you anyway, you were generous,”
Gabriela said, using the formal address in French.

“Oh, don’t give me that
vous
nonsense. It’s so formal and stuffy, and I’m not that old. How old
are you?”

“Almost twenty.”

Am I? My god, has it been two years
already?

“See, I knew it. We’re the same age. My name
is Christine.”

“I’m Gabriela. Gaby, I mean.”

“Well, Gaby, I took advantage of you, I admit
it.” She held up the brooch, admired it, then slipped it into her
purse. Gabriela felt a pang of loss. Her mother’s brooch, and now
it was gone. At least she’d sold it for more than she’d dreamed
just a few minutes earlier.

“Are you from Paris?” Christine asked.

“No,” she admitted.

“I’m so glad. I’m tired of these snobby
Parisiennes. Oh! I’m ready to faint I’m so hungry. You must be
too, arguing with that horrible Italian. Can I buy you a sausage?
I know a man who sells them out of a cart.” She gave Gabriela a
confidential smile. “No ration coupons required.”

Gabriela would have declined out of polite
habit, not to mention the punishing urge to go back to her
cramped, dingy flat she shared with her landlords and curl into a
ball, but her stomach growled so loudly at the mention of sausage
that she thought it must have been audible over the shouting
touts, the haggling, the crying children. “Yes, please. That would
be very nice of you.”

The sausage, when tracked down from the
illegal vendor, was obscenely expensive compared to pre-war
prices, and just as obscenely good. It had been weeks since
Gabriela had tasted meat and that had been a scrap of chicken, so
dry it was almost desiccated. This was thick and juicy. She took a
bite and rich fat, hot and delicious, slid down her chin.
Christine laughed and helped her clean it up with her
handkerchief.

“I’m sorry,” Gabriela said around mouthfuls.
Her fingers were burning on the wax paper, her tongue burning too,
but she didn’t care. “I haven’t had lunch. In fact, I haven’t had
a proper meal for about three weeks.”

A thin girl of four or five stared at them
eating. She clutched her mother’s dress. The mother tried to sell
bunches of daisies to passersby.

Christine took her elbow and led her away. “I
know what that’s like. Times are tough.”

“Times are tough?” Gabriela put a smile into
her voice. “Isn’t that like observing there are Germans in Paris?
Or saying a lot of Catholics hang around Notre Dame?”

Christine laughed. “Well, I hope the money
comes in handy. Hey, are you waiting for someone?”

“What? Oh, no. Not really.” Gabriela realized
she had been scanning the crowd again. Looking for the Gestapo
agent who could help her find her father.

“Who do you live with? Your parents?
Husband?”

Gabriela shook her head. “I don’t have
anyone. I’m fighting it out by myself.”

“But where do you live?” Christine asked.

“With my landlords in the 14
^th
Arrondissement. Not so nice, but it keeps me warm.”

“You may not believe it, but I know what
that’s like. I have to work to keep fed.”

“Oh, you have a job?” Gabriela found herself
reappraising Christine. Not a rich girl then. But what kind of job
paid well enough to buy black market sausages for strangers?

“I grew up near Marseille. Came up with my
sister a couple of years ago, but her husband went east on a work
crew—POW, you know—and she got permission to join him in Germany.
My mother wants me back in Provence. Probably to get married, but
she won’t admit it. I don’t want to go, so I got a job in a
restaurant called Le Coq Rouge, in the 4
^th
. You know
the place?”

“No, I don’t think so.”

“Good food, nice people. You should stop by
some time. Maybe you could, I don’t know, get a job.”

Work in a restaurant sounded perfect.
Something to feed herself while she continued her search for Papá.
Gabriela had already scoured the city for work, of course, but
never managed to find anything, and wondered how Christine had
managed.

“What do you do, wait tables?” Gabriela
asked.

“Not exactly. I’m more of an entertainer.”

“And that’s what you do at the restaurant?
Entertain Germans?”