A Troubled Peace (10 page)

T
he military police headquarters was busy—lots of people in and out, soldiers arrested, soldiers released, soldiers just hanging about. The MPs plopped Henry into a row of chairs in the main hallway and went to a desk to check him in. For a moment, Henry considered bolting out the door and into the street, but he knew he'd make it about twenty yards before he was caught. Besides, that would blow his game—his story that they didn't have anything on him. Henry stretched out his legs and yawned, pretending boredom.

The hallway was full of American civilians on some sort of official business. They all seemed to wear the same round glasses, tweed suits with wide lapels, and baggy pants. They stuck their thumbs in the pockets of their waistcoats or smoked pipes—intellectual-looking men
who appeared as uncomfortable in their attempts at nonchalance and lounging as Henry felt.

One among them caught Henry's notice. He was a tall, broad-shouldered blond, whose golden hair was parted severely and slicked back. About him hung an air of arrogance—something about the way he crossed his arms and surveyed people down his fine, chiseled nose, something about his staccato voice. British maybe, or just oddly harsh the way he pronounced words. Most voices sounded harsh to Henry after growing up around Tidewater drawls, but there was something about this one that disturbed him. Mesmerized, Henry kept watching the man. What was it about the guy that sent Henry into fire drill mode?

The blond man met Henry's gaze. Henry gasped a bit at his eyes. They were a deep, bright blue against the man's pale skin, blue like cornflowers. Henry couldn't stop staring at them. Where had he seen blue like that before? Blue like the rim of a flame everyone thought was the coolest part of a fire, but in actuality was the hottest, most scorching element—the part that could melt flesh off bone. Those eyes.

Then the man laughed at something his companion said, a sneering, guttural snort. It was like a firecracker going off by Henry's ear.

This time Henry couldn't stop the memory. He was back in the Gestapo cell, arms tied, soaking wet. He had
just been yanked up out of a tub of water and was gagging for breath, for life. Two men held him while the Gestapo torturer in charge spoke:
We will give you the count of ten, American. Ten seconds of air. Ten seconds to tell me the name of your Resistance contacts
.

Eins, zwei
…

No? Oh, too bad.

The men holding him laughed, one in a sneering, guttural snort.

…
8, 9, 10.

The man on his left arm lowered his face to Henry's, eye-to-eye.
Ready, American? Ready to die for your country of mongrels?

Eye-to-eye!

Henry knew exactly where he'd seen that blue before, where he'd heard that snide laughter, that cold voice.

Hatred threw Henry from the chair onto the blond man, knocking him against the wall and both of them to the floor. “Bastard!” Henry screamed. “You Nazi bastard!”

He slugged that contemptuous face, pummeled it until the MPs came running and jerked him up and off. But Henry had bloodied him. Bloodied him good. It'd be a long time before those blue eyes could see straight to hurt someone again.

“Get off me!” Henry kicked and flailed. “He's a Nazi, part of the Gestapo. He tortured me. Arrest him, not me!
What's the matter with you? Look on his arm for the tattoo they all had. He's SS!”

But the MPs dragged Henry down the hall, threw him into a room, and locked him in.

 

When the door opened, it wasn't an MP or Army officer who stepped in. It was a heavyset, round-faced American with thick-rimmed glasses, followed by a guard who stayed against the wall. He waved Henry to a seat and lowered his own bulk into an armchair. He pressed his fingertips together before saying, “Well, son, you've gotten yourself into some trouble.”

Somehow “son” didn't sound friendly. Henry remained silent.

“Trafficking in stolen American goods and counterfeit ration cards. Attacking a civilian.”

“That was no civilian, sir. I know that guy. Boy, do I ever know him. He's Nazi SS.” For once Henry knew exactly what was real and what wasn't during one of those nightmare memories. That flashback brought him clarity, not fog; strength, not fear. “I'm telling you, he is a Gestapo torturer. He near drowned me in their bathtub of persuasion. It happened farther down toward the border with Spain. My guide ratted me and a couple other fliers out to the border patrol. And they gave me over to the SS. For two days that SOB helped interrogate me. I'd recognize
those eyes and that voice anywhere.”

The man pursed his lips and thought a moment. Then he snapped his fingers at the guard, who left the room, once again locking the door.

What kind of weird game is this?
Henry forced himself to wait, to hold his thoughts close to his chest.

“Let's start over.” The man turned chummy. He offered Henry a cigarette. Henry declined, careful not to add that he didn't smoke, which would have made his having so many cigarettes even more suspicious. He wondered if that had been the point of the offer—to trip him up.

“My name is Thurman. Who are you exactly? And what are you doing here?”

Henry told his name, his rank, his record, how he went home, how he came back across the Atlantic taking care of cows and horses.

“But what are you doing in France?”

Henry used serviceman back talk. “Who wants to know?”

“The United States government, son. Don't play the stud with me. You're in enough trouble as it is. I can put you in the brig of a troopship heading back to the States this afternoon on charges that'll land you in jail for a couple of months. A U.S. Army court-martial just sentenced a GI to life imprisonment for selling twenty gallons of gas on the black market. The Army takes this seriously. Did
you come over here thinking you'd make a few bucks?”

“No, sir.”
Lord, a life sentence
. But Henry forced calm.
“Cool down, papa, don't you blow your top.”
He copped a what's-the-big-deal attitude and explained about Pierre. That his mother had packed the Spam, that the ship captain had given him the cigarettes. So what?

“Where'd you get the bread card? The French are pretty hot about our guys messing around in the black market.”

Here was his moment. Henry took a deep breath. “What ration card, sir? Has anybody shown you this ration card they supposedly took off me?”

Thurman sat back in his chair and smiled slightly. “Nope. No one seems to have any of the things they said they found on you. No hard evidence.” He paused a moment. “You were with the Resistance?”

“Yes, sir. They saved my life.”

“How long?”

“Couple of months, sir.”

“Any of them Reds?”

“Sir?”

“Communists?”

Henry knew some of the
maquis
were communists and socialists, just like
le patron
was. But Henry didn't trust this guy at all. For sure, he'd spent the war driving a desk. Henry shrugged. “Not that I remember, sir. What does that matter?”

“Could matter a lot if Stalin decides he wants to keep on marching right through Berlin into France. Because of the Resistance, the
Parti communiste français
is well organized and armed. It does not like de Gaulle. The members are very adept at organizing worker strikes that could paralyze the country. We believe it takes orders directly from Stalin and his politburo.”

“We?”

Thurman looked Henry over carefully for a long moment. Then he pulled out a business card and handed it to him. It read: Office of Strategic Services. “Know what we are, son?”

Whatever they were messing around with now, OSS agents had risked torture and death to help the Air Force be clearer on targets. “I know you guys sent agents behind lines, like the British SOE did, to gather strategic info. And that your counterintelligence corps tried to screw up the Germans with false leaks.”

Thurman smiled, pleased. “You could be a help to us, son, with your knowledge of the French Underground. Give us a call when you get back to the States.” He started to get up.

“I'm not going back to the States anytime soon, sir.”

“Ah, yes, you are. I can't let you off scot-free. I can let the French charges drop because I don't have the evidence in hand. But we can't have Americans just strolling around France right now.

“Unless, of course”—he paused and leaned forward—“you can supply me with information that could help us keep France free of Reds. Some of these communist groups are working hard to build anti-American feeling. A newspaper came out yesterday claiming that when we bombed Hitler's factories in France we were really just trying to weaken France so that we could take over its market with U.S. products after the war—economic imperialism, they called it. That's a line straight from the Soviet Union propaganda machine. I bet you could give us a list of some Resistance people we should keep an eye on until we know they really are with us. A little friendly surveillance, that's all. If you could do that, I could look the other way about your being here.”

Thurman let that sink in for a few seconds before adding, “We're just trying to put Humpty Dumpty back together again in France, son. We want to make sure he looks more like Uncle Sam than the Russian Bear when we finish.”

Henry frowned. Snitch on the political leanings of people who'd risked their lives to save him? He remembered what the Vercors doctor had said about de Gaulle's dislike of socialists and communists. The whole thing stank.

Well, Henry was learning fast. Two could play at this not-so-subtle game of blackmail and bribe. He hardened his voice. “What are you doing with that Nazi?”

“What Nazi?”

“Look, Mr. Thurman. I don't know what you're doing here. But I can tell you that guy I hit in the hallway is Gestapo. Maybe you think he can help you track communists, because the Gestapo was so ruthless hunting down the
maquis
. Or maybe you think you can use him to rat out other, higher-ranking Nazi SS hiding in France or on the run back to Germany. But that guy tortured Americans like me. He should answer for it. And God knows how many French he killed.”

Henry leaned forward himself, so close to Thurman that he could catch the whiff of real coffee on his breath. “Bet my friends the French policemen would be interested to know that Nazi is walking around ‘scot-free,' as you put it. I don't think they'd cotton to the idea of his hanging around with you when you obviously know exactly what he is—an SS torturer.”

Thurman glared at Henry.

Henry glared back, refusing to blink.

Suddenly Thurman burst out laughing. “Be sure to call that office when you do go home, Forester. I like you. I could use a guy like you.” He stood up and extended his hand. Slowly Henry rose and took it. Thurman's hand was clammy. “Where in France did you say you were heading next?”

“Paris, sir.”

“I'll see if I can arrange a ride for you with our
supply trucks heading there. A favor between friends, eh?” Thurman walked out the door, leaving it open.

Friends? No way.
He and Thurman just negotiated a mutual blackmail. Henry wouldn't divulge that Thurman was protecting a Gestapo torturer, and in exchange Thurman wouldn't send Henry back home or alert American authorities that he was in France. That was no friendship.

Henry wiped his hand on his pants leg to clear it of sweat-slime. But he wasn't going to ever be able to wipe himself completely clean of the deal he'd just cut, would he? How many fliers had that Nazi drowned or beaten to death? Would it be worth the exchange of helping Pierre—saving one young life by letting the murderer of many go?

“
E
ver been to Paris?”

Henry sat in the passenger bench of a large U.S. Army supply truck next to a young private. A sergeant was driving and a long convoy stretched out behind them.

“No, I haven't,” Henry answered. Despite his sorrow and worries, he was excited to see “the city of lights.” He wondered if the Louvre would be open. He had never been in a museum before. Patsy loved to draw and was forever checking out library books about painters. She'd told Henry that a portrait of a woman by Leonardo da Vinci called the
Mona Lisa
was at the Louvre.
Mona Lisa
's eyes would follow him around the room, she'd said. Henry would sure like to see that painting so he could tell Patsy if the woman's eyes really were that magical, to show he'd been thinking of her in France. Was she thinking of him? he wondered.

“Don't expect too much,” grumbled the driver.

“Excuse me?” Henry asked, startled. Could this guy know what he was thinking about?

“Don't expect too much from Paris,” the driver repeated irritably. “It's overrated.”

“Ah, come on, Sarge, it's the most beautiful place I've ever seen,” said the private, who smiled at Henry. He was from Oklahoma and his openness reminded Henry of wide fields and clean breezes. “Notre Dame, the Eiffel Tower, the Seine…”

“Yeah, the Seine,” barked the sergeant. “It stinks. It's full of garbage. They relieve themselves in
pissoirs
on the street that I bet just dump straight into the river. The people stink, too. Don't they ever shower?”

“They explained that to us, Sarge. Most of them don't have any hot water. And soap is rationed to two cakes a month per family.” He elbowed the sergeant. “Bet you need that much soap every time you shower to smell good.”

“Ha ha ha. You're a laugh riot, Joe,” grumbled the sergeant. “Listen, kid,” he said to Henry, “just watch you don't get soaked. All of Paris is a clip joint as far as I'm concerned. They charge ninety francs for one shot of watered-down cognac. I went to the Folies Bergère and the usher girl demanded a tip for showing me to my seat. What a racket!”

“But they don't pay them anything,” the private interrupted again. “It's like our tipping taxi drivers or redcaps. It's how they make a living.” The private turned to Henry. “It's worth a tip just to meet them, sir. They are some of the prettiest gals I've ever seen. And real nice if you talk to them. Of course, they don't hold a candle to my Millie, but it's fun to look.” He grinned.

“Well, they won't look back,” grumbled the sergeant. “The French don't like us, Joe. I'm telling you. They never thank us for anything. Since October our engineer corps has removed thirty demolished bridges and built two new ones across the Seine. But all the French do is complain that we have too good of a time when we're on leave. Complain, complain, complain.”

The private looked at Henry and rolled his eyes as if to say,
Look who's talking.
“Here's where you start, sir. Go to Rainbow Corner, run by the Red Cross. They'll help you find rooms rented out by the French. But don't worry. If you get in a pinch, there are plenty of us around to help you out. Besides us with the quartermaster unit, thousands of GIs come in on leave every week.”

“He don't need the Rainbow Corner,” said the sergeant, turning to eye Henry for the first time. “Somehow he rates the Hotel Scribe. That's where we're supposed to direct him.”

Surprised, the private shifted his weight and his attitude
the way enlisted gunners on the aircrew would change when an officer came in the room. Clearly he was no longer as comfortable with Henry.

“I didn't arrange for any room yet,” said Henry.

“No, sir,” the sergeant answered. “But it's been put in for you. By the same brass that gave you that stash.”

He referred to the Red Cross relief box Henry was holding in his lap. It had appeared in the truck, labeled for him. It was crammed full of supplies: K-ration biscuits, Klim powdered milk, Kraft cheese, Sun-Maid raisins, Jack Frost sugar, Hershey bars, instant coffee, and yes, Spam. Henry'd been grateful for the food, figuring that was a fair handout to compensate for the things the police had taken from him. But he was beginning to feel a little funny at the mention of the hotel. “What's the big deal about the Hotel Scribe?”

“It's pretty swank, sir. It's where all the newspaper guys are housed. Used to be the hotel for the Nazi propaganda unit, so it stayed pretty well outfitted during the war. The Army guys brief you daily and keep a good eye on you, sir.”

So that's why the private suddenly seemed uneasy around him. They thought Henry was press. All the fliers had been leery of reporters when they met them on the base. They seemed nice enough, but if a flier was quoted in a real honest moment, he could get into a barrage of flak with his superiors.

“I'm not a newsman.”

They both looked at him with that “Sure, right” expression Henry knew so well from his time with the guys in his base Nissen hut. “Then why the red carpet?” the sergeant asked.

Henry didn't know. But he was beginning to worry about Thurman's long-term expectations of him. If Clayton had taught Henry one thing, it was to stand on his own two feet. Maybe Clayton's reasons for that had been to avoid obligations he didn't like the smell of.

 

About the time they started driving alongside the Seine River and seeing rows of tall, meticulously kept town houses, they heard church bells. Cannon fire. The rushing sweep of planes.

“What's going on?” the private asked.

Henry held on to the rim of the window and pushed himself out to look at the belly of low-flying planes. They were American B-17s. “They're fortresses!” he called back into the truck cab. Was the city under attack? That wouldn't make any sense given their formation, and how low they were flying. If the Germans had launched some sort of counterattack, the Allies would be answering with fighters, not bombers.

Suddenly there was a racket of horn blowing—cars, trucks, unseen but heard for miles. And a kind of roar rose
from deep inside the city, as if thousands of people were crying out. Unnerved, Henry poked his head back into the truck. “What do you think it is?”

For the first time, the sergeant cracked a grin that sweetened his sour face. He slammed on the brakes and the convoy following stopped short, in a domino of screeches. Cheering erupted from the back of the line and rolled up along the trucks to them, as the sergeant held up his fingers in a V, like Churchill.

Could it be?

“We've won!” the sergeant cried. “We've won, Joe. I heard a rumor about it this morning. Hitler killed himself and the Nazis have finally surrendered.”

“We've won? It's over?” the private repeated in awed tones. Then the two of them screamed it out together over and over in shouts of delight and relief: “We've won! We've won!” They jumped out of the cab to join a dozen drivers skipping, embracing, knocking one another over, like a mass of puppies playing.

Everywhere around them doors flung open and French children, women, men spilled out, crying,
“Victoire! Victoire!”

 

Somehow, carried by a mass of dancing, rejoicing people, Henry ended up on the Champs-Élysées, the main boulevard of Paris. From the Arc de Triomphe to the huge
palace of the Louvre, the street was jammed full of jeeps and taxis and bodies. Every U.S. Army vehicle was covered with girls waving handkerchiefs, waving flags, blowing kisses, singing snatches of American songs they'd learned from the radio:
“Yez, zir, zat's my bébé.”
Thousands marched up and down, crying and laughing, chanting,
“Vive la France! Vive la France!”
White and pink petals from the blossoming chestnut trees fell like confetti on them. American planes roared overhead.

Watching the formations, Henry got drenched when sculpture fountains that had been dry and silent during the war were turned on suddenly in coughing spews of water. Parisians clapped and splashed the water at one another, the cascading fountains adding to the city's raucous partying. French troops on horseback and in Napoleonic dress uniforms tried to parade, but the crowds swallowed them and hoisted girls up onto the horses. Wrapping their arms around the soldiers, they squealed as the horsehair plumes from the men's shining helmets fell into their faces.

Because of his conversation with Thurman, Henry wondered at the sight of Soviet soldiers in fancy high collars, red stars, and shoulder-board epaulets walking arm-in-arm with American GIs—no political distrust between them, just rejoicing in peace. But Henry couldn't contemplate that long as a child grabbed his hand and dragged him into a conga line. The elderly, the elegant, the ragged
stretched for yards, connected hands to hips, sashaying in time like a giant centipede of joy.

At twilight red, white, and blue floodlights lit up the city's most famous monuments—the Arc de Triomphe, the Place de la Concorde, and the Opera. There was a momentary hush as the lights switched on. Then the masses began to sing a Resistance song that filled Henry with a bittersweet pride of mourning and celebration:

So many had died for this moment—May 8, 1945, Victory in Europe, VE Day the crowds called it. Henry promised himself to mark the date in the years ahead by remembering Madame, Dan, Billy, and his teenage guide. They would be his partners in any dance of celebration. Their memory followed him through that night of rejoicing.

At midnight, the Parisian fire brigade blew trumpets to end the official partying. Shouldering his bag, Henry set off to find the Hotel Scribe, following directions scribbled down by the convoy's sergeant.

Tomorrow his hunt for Pierre would begin again. Tomorrow, perhaps he'd find him. Then the war for Henry would finally be over.