B004U2USMY EBOK (12 page)

Truth was, the
en carte
girls and the
nude dancers at the Egyptienne stepped into the restaurant during
breaks in the action. During her long, fruitless search for
employment, Gabriela had once entered to ask about jobs and been
taken for one of the working girls. She’d huffed off, offended
that anyone could think such a thing. Remembering the humiliating
incident made her aware that she was wearing panties, nylons,
dress, shoes, perfume, and lipstick gifted by her German patron.
In appearance and behavior, she would fit right in with the
en
carte
girls. Life had a way of punishing you for your hubris
in the most ironic fashion possible.

“Okay, if that’s what you want.” Alfonse gave
instructions to the driver, then sat back and ran his hand beneath
her dress again. A moment later he was nibbling her ear. “On
second thought, this could be fun.”

How hard would it be to deflect his attention
to some other pretty thing? Not particularly difficult, she
suspected.

Chapter Nine:

The train came under attack several hours
into its trip. Boredom and fatigue had replaced Helmut’s initial
rush of fear at being taken into custody. The prison car had no
windows and he leaned against the wall, dozing as much as possible
against the rattle of the train and the discomfort of his
manacles. He sank into a lethargy, only occasionally punctuated by
moments of full-blown panic as he remembered what awaited him upon
his arrival in Germany.

The first indication of trouble was the sound
of the roof-mounted anti-aircraft gun chattering from several cars
up. All at once the guards were diving to the floor. Helmut and
his fellow prisoners—a mixture of
maquis
, communists,
intercepted spies, captured airmen, and even a Jewish banker
expelled from Vichy and taken into custody by the Gestapo—did not
have this option, hampered as they were by chains and manacles.
Shouts for help in German, French, Italian, English.

The train shuddered and the roof peeled open.
Something splattered across his face. Shards of sunlight thrust
into the car. The gunfire receded, replaced by screams. No more
words. Dying, all men sounded remarkably the same.

The guard stationed near Helmut lay on the
ground, writhing like a man in the grip of a seizure, his face
clenched into a grimace. The heavy caliber machine guns of the
strafing fighter had turned one of his arms to pulp. Moments
earlier, he’d been talking to a fellow guard about an Austrian
girl they both knew named Helen. Apparently Helen had red hair, a
shapely bottom, and freckles on her breasts. A lively discussion
about the color of hair between her legs. Copper? Full-on red? A
lovely auburn shade?

This young man would never find out unless
someone stopped the gush of blood from his ruined arm.

As Helmut looked for someone to help, he
noticed the Jewish banker at his side seemed to be in trouble. The
man was a quiet little man with a pair of thin lips and a mustache
that looked, ironically, rather like Hitler’s. A couple of hours
earlier, he’d asked, improbably, if Helmut knew the time
difference between New York and Berlin—as if he were expecting a
call from Wall Street upon their arrival—then, when Helmut said he
guessed eight hours, had nodded and said cryptically, “It will
have to do. And I suppose I don’t have much of a choice in any
event.”

The gunfire had liberated the man from his
chains. He slumped to the floor, until it looked like he was
resting his head in the injured guard’s lap. And then Helmut saw
how he’d freed himself from his chains; the lower half of his body
remained in its seat. Helmut turned and the biscuits and milk
they’d given him for lunch came up.

A dark shadow passed overhead and an engine
that screamed like some hideous bird of prey. It breathed fire
onto the train and several rows ahead prisoners and guards jerked
and jived, and suddenly the screaming of the engine sounded like a
tuneless song, and the dying men looked like dancers. When the
plane passed, the screams and shrieks and curses filled the empty
space. The smell of blood and hot metal. Helmut ducked down and
clenched his eyes shut, sure that the next pass would be the last
for him.

But then he heard a blessed sound in the
distance. The familiar whine of Messerschmitt interceptors, two
from the sound of it. He’d spent three weeks running supply trains
to Calais early in the war and heard that sound hundreds of times
as Messerschmitts raced off to battle Spitfires over southern
England and the Channel.

The anti-aircraft continued its angry chatter
for a few more seconds and then the sound of both the
Messerchmitts and the attacking plane disappeared in the distance.
The train didn’t stop.

The guards collected themselves, turned to
injured comrades. A medic appeared. They shot a prisoner in the
head; presumably, his injuries were too great to survive. Injured
men moaned, then cried out as they were moved.

A very pale, very young soldier checked
Helmut’s restraints. Just a boy, really. His hand trembled. It was
the second of the two men who’d spoken so lovingly about Helen’s
freckles, breasts, and bottom. They’d carried off his friend. He
met Helmut’s gaze with a haunted expression. “My god, I can’t take
this,” he said in a low voice. “I’ve got to get out of here.”

Helmut grabbed the soldier’s hand and
squeezed. “It’s over. You pulled through.”

“I’m a coward.”

“No, you’re not. Look around you, men are
dead and dying. You’re standing and doing your job. You’re one of
the brave ones.”

The boy swallowed hard and something like
gratitude passed over his face. He gave a brisk nod and then
continued down the row, checking prisoners. The train continued to
clatter its way into the heart of the Reich. Apparently the
engine—no doubt the real target of the strafing run—had emerged
from the attack unscathed.

Helmut closed his eyes and tried to remember
the day with Marie-Élise at Chenonceau. The sunlight, the smell of
the garden, the bread and cheese and wine. Marie-Élise’s face, so
young and vulnerable and beautiful.

#

“Gaby!” cried a familiar voice as Gabriela
waited in front of the
Egyptienne
.

Loud laughter and music from inside. A
Frenchman in a crisp blue uniform with gold epaulettes festooned
with tassels stood at the door and let people enter or turned them
away, depending on some mysterious criteria. Gabriela had been
afraid to approach the gatekeeper until Alfonse returned from
parking the car. Maybe the doorman would look at her and say she
wasn’t pretty enough or ask if she was a Spaniard or a Jew.

She turned at the sound of her name. It was
Christine. She was dressed glamorously, with a shimmering skirt, a
glossy blouse, white gloves, and a long cigarette holder in her
hands, but no cigarette. Christine greeted her with a kiss to each
cheek.

“I thought you were supposed to be at the
restaurant,” Christine said.

“Planning to go later, what about you?”

“Not until curfew,” Christine said. “Until
then, I’m trying to get in here.”

“And you can’t just walk in? You’re plenty
pretty enough.”

“A few weeks ago there was an…incident. I
can’t get in without a man, so I’ve been waiting to see if there’s
anyone I know.”

“Oh.” She started to ask what kind of
incident, but just then Alfonse came back from the car. No sign of
the driver; she didn’t suppose the
Egyptienne
was the sort of place that welcomed
corporals.

Christine gave Gabriela a significant look
before turning her charms to the major. “Alfonse, my love, how are
you?”

He gave her a charming smile. “Leblanc must
be frantic with his two prettiest girls out. I’ll bet the clients
take one look inside and decide to go somewhere else.”

Another German officer passed, accompanied by
two elegantly dressed Frenchmen. They smiled at the girls, who
returned the look coquettishly.

“You might be right,” Gabriela said. “Look at
all the men who are following us here. Handsome men, too.”

Alfonse gave what sounded like a good-natured
grunt of faux jealousy. “Hmm, maybe we’re safer inside, where the
two of you have some competition.”

“Let’s go then,” Gabriela said. “It’s cold
out here. Oh, I asked Christine to dine with us. I hope that’s
okay.”

“Bringing two pretty girls to the
Egyptienne
?” He grinned.
“Isn’t that like bringing sand to the beach?”

#

Gabriela had claimed she wanted to go to the
restaurant to eat, but she put on a pouty, capricious act once
they got inside. It was empty, that was boring. And she wasn’t
hungry anymore anyway. “Let’s go to the lounge instead.”

“Are you sure? I thought you said—”

Gabriela tugged on his arm. “Oh, come on.
It’ll be fun.”

She caught Christine watching with a
thoughtful expression, but her friend said nothing.

They continued through the restaurant and
into the lounge at the rear of the gentleman’s club. There were
twenty men or more smoking water pipes, drinking, eating on the
floor, propped against pillows on luxurious carpets like they were
in some Turkish harem. Others played billiards, cards, or darts at
the back, or sang bawdy songs around the piano.

For every man in the club there were two or
three women. Young, attractive and, to Gabriela’s shock, each and
every one of them was topless. They drank and sang and sat on
laps, giggling. One girl went hand-in-hand with a German into a
back room.

Alfonse’s face lit up and he turned to look
at each and every pair of jiggling breasts. “Did I ever tell you
how much I love Paris?”

“Hmm, South Sea Islands night,” Christine
said. She shrugged and started to unbutton her blouse. “We don’t
want to stand out.”

“I don’t see anything that looks like the
Pacific Islands,” Gabriela said. “Shouldn’t we wear coconuts or
something?”

“Oh, come on, Gaby,” Alfonse said as he
watched Christine undress. “Don’t be such a prude. You’re among
the natives, you need to act like one. Come on, I’ll help.”

She slapped away his outstretched hand and
forced a light smile to her face. “So now you want to undress me
in public? Oh, you naughty man.”

Christine had by now removed her blouse and
unhooked her brassiere, liberating her breasts. They were small
and very firm and she fluffed them a bit. Tweaked her nipples to
make them stand up. Alfonse watched with a delighted expression.

There seemed to be no choice and so Gabriela
reluctantly unbuttoned her blouse and took off her own brassiere.
A topless waitress came by with drinks and took their discarded
clothing without prompting. Gabriela resisted the urge to cross
her arms over her chest.

“Very nice,” Christine said with an admiring
glance. “You’re such a beautiful girl, makes me jealous. Don’t you
think she’s beautiful, Alfonse?”

He stared. “Oh, you’re both ravishing.”

When Gabriela couldn’t stand the
self-conscious feeling any longer, she said, “Let’s get something
to eat. I’m starving.”

“And I’m dying of thirst,” Alfonse said.

“I believe we can satisfy all appetites
tonight,” Christine said.

Other girls passed them by, sizing them up.
She saw one girl in particular eye Christine with a frown and
Gabriela found herself wondering about the “incident.”

They took a seat among the stuffed pillows
and the food appeared within moments. Scallops in garlic and
butter, olives, beef tips in wine sauce, sauteed champignons,
shrimp, apricot pork loin; the food was so rich and in such
quantities that Gabriela forgot for a moment the rations, the
queues, the time she’d found the torn-out pages of a cookbook on a
bench in the Luxembourg Gardens and spent the next two hours
pouring over the recipes with the same naughty pleasure as if
she’d just found a smutty novel.

Christine leaned over from her pillows at one
point. “Don’t eat too much,” she whispered. “No blouse, we don’t
want to show the bulgy tummy look. It’s not very erotic.”

Alfonse nibbled now and then while the girls
ate, but he took everything offered to drink. His bonhomie
increased after two or three. He greeted and toasted every man who
passed, got distracted by a cute girl at least a head shorter than
Gabriela, then waved her off with a laugh when she whispered
something in his ear. “No, no, I’ve got company already, see.”

A trio of Germans stopped by who seemed to
know Alfonse and they engaged in what sounded like good-natured
banter. A topless girl hung onto one man’s arm, ran her fingers
through his hair while he talked. She nibbled at his ear. There
were love-bites on his neck.

Alfonse laughed and waved his hand. “
Nein,
nein. Ich bin beschäftigt.
”

“No, you’re not busy,” Christine told
Alfonse. “Go on, enjoy yourself. We’re not going anywhere.”

“In that case, I’ll be back in a few. Just
have to show these boasters how to play a good hand of
Schafkopf.
”

“Where did you learn German, anyway?”
Gabriela asked after Alfonse left with his friends.

“Two years of horizontal German lessons.”
Christine lifted her wine glass in a mock toast gesture. “Here’s
to another ten. By then, my boobs will be too saggy to do this
anymore.”

“Horizontal collaboration, more like.”
Gabriela looked around at the decadence of the Egyptienne. It
seemed almost frantic in its defiance of the reality outside these
doors. Hungry Frenchmen, Germans getting shipped off to the
Eastern Front or bombed in their barracks by the Allies. “It’s
going to get ugly if the Americans show up.”

“Nah, the
boches
aren’t going
anywhere. I mean, the Reich’s not going to last a thousand years,
nobody believes that bullshit. But they’ll be here long after
we’re toothless old hags begging centimes in front of Notre Dame.”