Jackdaws

THE VAST, SOOTY bulk of the cathedral loomed over the center of Reims like a divine reproach.



Dieter Franck's sky-blue Hispano-Suiza pulled up at midday outside the Hotel Frankfort, taken over by the German occupiers.



Dieter got out and glanced up at the stubby twin towers of the great church.



The original medieval design had featured elegant pointed spires, which had never been built for lack of money.



So mundane obstacles frustrated the holiest of aspirations.



Dieter told Lieutenant Hesse to drive to the chateau at Sainte-Cecile and make sure the Gestapo were ready to cooperate.



He did not want to risk being repulsed a second time by Major Weber.



Hesse drove off, and Dieter went up to the suite where he had left Stephanie last night.



She got up from her chair as he walked in.



He drank in the welcome sight.



Her red hair fell on bare shoulders, and she wore a chestnut silk negligee and high-heeled slippers.



He kissed her hungrily and ran his hands over her slim body, grateful for the gift of her beauty.



"How nice that you're so pleased to see me," she said with a smile.



They spoke French together, as always.



Dieter inhaled the scent of her.



"Well, you smell better than Hans Hesse, especially when he's been up all night." She brushed his hair back with a soft hand.



"You always make fun.



But you wouldn't have protected Hans with your own body." "True." He sighed and let her go.



"Christ, I'm tired." "Come to bed." He shook his head.



"I have to interrogate the prisoners.



Hesse's coming back for me in an hour." He slumped on the couch.



"I'll get you something to eat." She pressed the bell, and a minute later an elderly French waiter tapped at the door.



Stephanie knew Dieter well enough to order for him.



She asked for a plate of ham with warm rolls and potato salad.



"Some wine?" she asked him.



"No-it'll send me to sleep." "A pot of coffee, then," she told the waiter.



When the man had gone, she sat on the couch beside Dieter and took his hand.



"Did everything go according to plan?" "Yes.



Rommel was quite complimentary to me." He frowned anxiously.



"I just hope I can live up to the promises I made him." "I'm sure you will." She did not ask for details.



She knew he would tell her as much as he wanted to and no more.



He looked fondly at her, wondering whether to say what was on his mind.



It might spoil the pleasant atmosphere-but it needed to be said.



He sighed again.



"If the invasion is successful, and the Allies win back France, it will be the end for you and me.



You know that." She winced, as if at a sudden pain, and let go of his hand.



"Do I?" He knew that her husband had been killed early in the war, and they had had no children.



"Do you have any family at all?" he asked her.



"My parents died years ago.



I have a sister in Montreal." "Maybe we should be thinking about how to send you over there." She shook her head.



"No." "Why?" She would not meet his eye.



"I just wish the war would be over," she muttered.



"No, you don't." She showed a rare flash of irritation.



"Of course I do." "How uncharacteristically conventional of you," he said with a hint of scorn.



"You can't possibly think war is a good thing!" "You and I would not be together, were it not for the war." "But what about all the suffering?" "I'm an existentialist.



War enables people to be what they really are: the sadists become torturers, the psychopaths make brave front-line troops, the bullies and the victims alike have scope to play their roles to the hilt, and the whores are always busy." She looked angry.



"That tells me pretty clearly what part I play." He stroked her soft cheek and touched her lips with the tip of his finger.



"You're a courtesan-and very good at it." She moved her head away.



"You don't mean any of this.



You're improvising on a tune, the way you do when you sit at the piano." He smiled and nodded: he could play a little jazz, much to his father's dismay.



The analogy was apt.



He was trying out ideas, rather than expressing a firm conviction.



"Perhaps you're right." Her anger evaporated, and she looked sad.



"Did you mean the part about us separating, if the Germans leave France?" He put his arm around her shoulders and pulled her to him.



She relaxed and laid her head on his chest.



He kissed the top of her head and stroked her hair.



"It's not going to happen," he said.



"Are you certain?" "I guarantee it." It was the second time today he had made a promise he might not be able to keep.



The waiter returned with his lunch, and the spell was broken.



Dieter was almost too tired to be hungry, but he ate a few mouthfuls and drank all the coffee.



Afterwards he washed and shaved, and then he felt better.



As he was buttoning a clean uniform shirt, Lieutenant Hesse tapped at the door.



Dieter kissed Stephanie and went out.



The car was diverted around a blocked street: there had been another bombing raid overnight, and a whole row of houses near the railway station had been destroyed.



They got out of town and headed for SainteCecile.



Dieter had told Rommel that the interrogation of the prisoners might enable him to cripple the Resistance before the invasion-but Rommel, like any military commander, took a maybe for a promise and would now expect results.



Unfortunately, there was nothing guaranteed about an interrogation.



Clever prisoners told lies that were impossible to check.



Some found ingenious ways to kill themselves before the torture became unbearable.



If security was really tight in their particular Resistance circuit, each would know only the minimum about the others, and have little information of value.



Worst of all, they might have been fed false information by the perfidious Allies, so that when they finally broke under torture, what they said was part of a deception plan.



Dieter began to put himself in the mood.



He needed to be completely hard-hearted and calculating.



He must not allow himself to be touched by the physical and mental suffering he was about to inflict on human beings.



All that mattered was whether it worked.



He closed his eyes and felt a profound calm settle over him, a familiar bone-deep chill that he sometimes thought must be like the cold of death itself.



The car pulled into the grounds of the chateau.



Workmen were repairing the smashed glass in the windows and filling the holes made by grenades.



In the ornate hall, the telephonists murmured into their microphones in a perpetual undertone.



Dieter marched through the perfectly proportioned rooms of the east wing, with Hans Hesse in tow.



They went down the stairs to the fortified basement.



The sentry at the door saluted and made no attempt to detain Dieter, who was in uniform.



He found the door marked Interrogation Center and went in.



In the outer room, Willi Weber sat at the table.



Dieter barked, "Heil Hitler!" and saluted, forcing Weber to stand.



Then Dieter pulled out a chair, sat down, and said, "Please be seated, Major." Weber was furious at being invited to sit in his own headquarters, but he had no choice.



Dieter said, "How many prisoners do we have?" "Three." Dieter was disappointed.



"So few?" "We killed eight of the enemy in the skirmish.



Two more died of their wounds overnight." Dieter grunted with dismay.



He had ordered that the wounded be kept alive.



But there was no point now in questioning Weber about their treatment.



Weber went on, "I believe two escaped-" "Yes," Dieter said.



"The woman in the square, and the man she carried away." "Exactly.



So, from a total of fifteen attackers, we have three prisoners." "Where are they?" Weber looked shifty.



"Two are in the cells." Dieter narrowed his eyes.



"And the third?" Weber inclined his head toward the inner room.



"The third is under interrogation at this moment." Dieter got up, apprehensive, and opened the door.



The hunched figure of Sergeant Becker stood just inside the room, holding in his hand a wooden club like a large policeman's truncheon.



He was sweating and breathing hard, as if he had been taking vigorous exercise.



He was staring at a prisoner who was tied to a post.



Dieter looked at the prisoner, and his fears were confirmed.



Despite his self-imposed calm, he grimaced with revulsion.



The prisoner was the young woman, Genevieve, who had carried a Sten gun under her coat.



She was naked, tied to the pillar by a rope that passed under her arms and supported her slumped weight.



Her face was so swollen that she could not have opened her eyes.



Blood from her mouth covered her chin and most of her chest.



Her body was discolored with angry bruises.



One arm hung at an odd angle, apparently dislocated at the shoulder.



Her pubic hair was matted with blood.



Dieter said to Becker, "What has she told you?" Becker looked embarrassed.



"Nothing." Dieter nodded, suppressing his rage.



It was as he had expected.



He went close to the woman.



"Genevieve, listen to me," he said in French.



She showed no sign of having heard.



"Would you like to rest now?" he tried.



There was no response.



He turned around.



Weber was standing in the doorway, looking defiant.



Dieter, coldly furious, said, "You were expressly told that I would conduct the interrogation." "We were ordered to give you access," Weber replied with smug pedantry.



"We were not prohibited from questioning the prisoners ourselves." "And are you satisfied with the results you have achieved?" Weber did not answer.



Dieter said, "What about the other two?" "We have not yet begun their interrogation." "Thank God for that." Dieter was nonetheless dismayed.



He had expected half a dozen subjects, not two.



"Take me to them." Weber nodded at Becker, who put down his club and led the way out of the room.



In the bright lights of the corridor, Dieter could see the bloodstains on Becker's uniform.



The sergeant stopped at a door with a judas peephole.



Dieter slid back the panel and looked inside.



It was a bare room with a dirt floor.



The only item of furniture was a bucket in the corner.



Two men sat on the ground, not talking, staring into space.



Dieter studied them carefully.



He had seen both yesterday.



The older one was Gaston, who had set the charges.



He had a large piece of sticking-plaster covering a scalp wound that looked superficial.



The other was very young, about seventeen, and Dieter recalled that his name was Bertrand.



He had no visible injuries, but Dieter, recalling the skirmish, thought he might have been stunned by the explosion of a hand grenade.



Dieter watched them for a while, taking time to think.



He had to do this right.



He could not afford to waste another captive: these two were the only assets left.



The kid would be scared, he foresaw, but might withstand a lot of pain.



The other was too old for serious torture-he might die before he cracked-but he would be softhearted.



Dieter began to see a strategy for interrogating them.



He closed the judas and returned to the interview room.



Becker followed, reminding him again of a stupid but dangerous dog.



Dieter said, "Sergeant Becker, untie the woman and put her in the cell with the other two." Weber protested, "A woman in a man's cell?" Dieter stared at him incredulously.



"Do you think she will feel the indignity?" Becker went into the torture chamber and reemerged carrying the broken body of Genevieve.



Dieter said, "Make sure the old man gets a good look at her, then bring him here." Becker went out.



Dieter decided he would prefer to get rid of Weber.



However, he knew that if he gave a direct order, Weber would resist.



So he said, "I think you should remain here to witness the interrogation.



You could learn a lot from my techniques." As Dieter had expected, Weber did the opposite.



"I don't think so," he said.



"Becker can keep me informed." Dieter faked an indignant expression, and Weber went out.



Dieter caught the eye of Lieutenant Hesse, who had quietly taken a seat in the corner.



Hesse understood how Dieter had manipulated Weber and was looking admiringly at Dieter.



Dieter shrugged.



"Sometimes it's too easy," he said.



Becker returned with Gaston.



The older man was pale.



No doubt he had been badly shocked by the sight of Genevieve.



Dieter said in German, "Please have a seat.



Do you like to smoke?" Gaston looked blank.



That established that he did not understand German, which was worth knowing.



Dieter motioned him to a seat and offered him cigarettes and matches.



Gaston took a cigarette and lit it with shaking hands.



Some prisoners broke at this stage, before torture, just from fear of what would happen.



Dieter hoped that might be the case today.



He had shown Gaston the alternatives: on one hand, the dreadful sight of Genevieve; on the other, cigarettes and kindness.



Now he spoke in French, using a friendly tone.



"I'm going to ask you some questions." "I don't know anything," Gaston said.



"Oh, I think you do," Dieter said.



"You're in your sixties, and you've probably lived in or around Reims all your life." Gaston did not deny this.



Dieter went on: "I realize that the members of a Resistance cell use code names and give one another the minimum of personal information, as a security precaution." Gaston involuntarily gave a slight nod of agreement.



"But you've known most of these people for decades.



A man may call himself Elephant or Priest or Aubergine when the Resistance meet, but you know his face, and you recognize him as Jean-Pierre the postman, who lives in the rue du Parc and surreptitiously visits the widow Martineau on Tuesdays when his wife thinks he is playing bowls." Gaston looked away, unwilling to meet Dieter's eye, confirming that Dieter was right.



Dieter went on, "I want you to understand that you are in control of everything that happens here.



Pain, or the relief of pain; the sentence of death, or reprieve; all depend on your choices." He saw with satisfaction that Gaston looked even more terrified.



"You will answer my questions," he went on.



"Everyone does, in the end.



The only imponderable is how soon." This was the moment when a man might break down, but Gaston did not.



"I can't tell you anything," he said in a near-whisper.



He was scared, but he still had some courage left, and he was not going to give up without a fight.



Dieter shrugged.



It was to be the hard way, then.



He spoke to Becker in German.



"Go back to the cell.



Make the boy strip naked.



Bring him here and tie him to the pillar in the next room." "Very good, Major," Becker said eagerly.



Dieter turned back to Gaston.



"You're going to tell me the names and code names of all the men and women who were with you yesterday, and any others in your Resistance circuit." Gaston shook his head, but Dieter ignored that.



"I want to know the address of every member, and of every house used by members of the circuit." Gaston drew hard on his cigarette and stared at the glowing end.



In fact, these were not the most important questions.



Dieter's main aim was to get information that would lead him to other Resistance circuits.



But he did not want Gaston to know that.



A moment later, Becker returned with Bertrand.



Gaston stared openmouthed as the naked boy was marched through the interview room into the chamber beyond.



Dieter stood up.



He said to Hesse, "Keep an eye on this old man." Then he followed Becker into the torture chamber.



He was careful to leave the door a little ajar so that Gaston could hear everything.



Becker tied Bertrand to the pillar.



Before Dieter could intervene, Becker punched Bertrand in the stomach.



It was a powerful blow from a strong man, and it made a sickening thud.



The young man groaned and writhed in agony.



"No, no, no," Dieter said.



As he had expected, Becker's approach was completely unscientific.



A strong young man could withstand being punched almost indefinitely.



"First, you blindfold him." He produced a large cotton bandana from his pocket and tied it over Bertrand's eyes.



"This way, every blow comes as a dreadful shock, and every moment between blows is an agony of anticipation." Becker picked up his wooden club.



Dieter nodded, and Becker swung the club, hitting the side of the victim's head with a loud crack of solid wood on skin and bone.



Bertrand cried out in pain and fear.



"No, no," Dieter said again.



"Never hit the head.



You may dislocate the jaw, preventing the subject from speaking.



Worse, you may damage the brain, then nothing he says will be of any value." He took the wooden club from Becker and replaced it in the umbrella stand.



From the selection of weapons there he chose a steel crowbar and handed it to Becker.



"Now, remember, the object is to inflict unbearable agony without endangering the subject's life or his ability to tell us what we need to know.



Avoid vital organs.



Concentrate on the bony parts: ankles, shins, kneecaps, fingers, elbows, shoulders, ribs." A crafty look came over Becker's face.



He walked around the pillar, then, taking careful aim, struck hard at Bertrand's elbow with the steel bar.



The boy gave a scream of real agony, a sound Dieter recognized.



Becker looked pleased.



God forgive me, Dieter thought, for teaching this brute how to inflict pain more efficiently.



On Dieter's orders, Becker struck at Bertrand's bony shoulder, then his hand, then his ankle.



Dieter made Becker pause between blows, allowing just enough time for the pain to ease slightly and for the subject to begin to dread the next stroke.



Bertrand began to appeal for mercy.



"No more, please," he implored, hysterical with pain and fear.



Becker raised the crowbar, but Dieter stopped him.



He wanted the begging to go on.



"Please don't hit me again," Bertrand cried.



"Please, please." Dieter said to Becker, "It is often a good idea to break a leg early in the interview.



The pain is quite excruciating, especially when the broken bone is struck again." He selected a sledgehammer from the umbrella stand.



"Just below the knee," he said, handing it to Becker.



"As hard as you can." Becker took careful aim and swung mightily.



The crack as the shin broke was loud enough to hear.



Bertrand screamed and fainted.



Becker picked up a bucket of water that stood in a corner and threw the water in Bertrand's face.



The young man came to and screamed again.



Eventually, the screams subsided to heartrending groans.



"What do you want?" Bertrand implored.



"Please, tell me what you want from me!" Dieter did not ask him any questions.



Instead, he handed the steel crowbar to Becker and pointed to the broken leg where a jagged white edge of bone stuck through the flesh.



Becker struck the leg at that point.



Bertrand screamed and passed out again.



Dieter thought that might be enough.



He went into the next room.



Gaston sat where Dieter had left him, but he was a different man.



He was bent over in his chair, face in his hands, crying with great sobs, moaning and praying to God.



Dieter knelt in front of him and prized his hands away from his wet face.



Gaston looked at him through tears.



Dieter said softly, "Only you can make it stop." "Please, stop it, please," Gaston moaned.



"Will you answer my questions?" There was a pause.



Bertrand screamed again.



"Yes!" Gaston yelled.



"Yes, yes, I'll tell you everything, if you just stop!" Dieter raised his voice.



"Sergeant Becker!" "Yes, Major?" "No more for now." "Yes, Major." Becker sounded disappointed.



Dieter reverted to French.



"Now, Gaston, let's begin with the leader of the circuit.



Name and code name.



Who is he?" Gaston hesitated.



Dieter looked toward the open door of the torture chamber.



Gaston quickly said, "Michel Clairet.



Code name Monet." It was the breakthrough.



The first name was the hardest.



The rest would follow effortlessly.



Concealing his satisfaction, Dieter gave Gaston a cigarette and held a match.



"Where does he live?" "In Reims." Gaston blew out smoke and his shaking began to subside.



He gave an address near the cathedral.



Dieter nodded to Lieutenant Hesse, who took out a notebook and began to record Gaston's responses.



Patiently, Dieter took Gaston through each member of the attack team.



In a few cases Gaston knew only the code names, and there were two men he claimed never to have seen before Sunday.



Dieter believed him.



There had been two getaway drivers waiting a short distance away, Gaston said: a young woman called Gilberte and a man codenamed Marechal.



There were others in the group, which was known as the Bollinger circuit.



Dieter asked about relationships between Resistance members.



Were there any love affairs? Were any of them homosexual? Was anyone sleeping with someone else's wife? Although the torture had stopped, Bertrand continued to groan and sometimes scream with the agony of his wounds, and now Gaston said, "Is he going to be looked after?" Dieter shrugged.



"Please, get a doctor for him." "Very well.



.



.



when we have finished our talk." Gaston told Dieter that Michel and Gilberte were lovers, even though Michel was married to Flick, the blond girl in the square.



So far, Gaston had been talking about a circuit that was mostly destroyed, so his information had been mainly of academic interest.



Now Dieter moved on to more important questions.



"When Allied agents come to this district, how do they make contact?" No one was supposed to know how that was handled, Gaston said.



There was a cut-out.



However, he knew part of the story.



The agents were met by a woman code-named Bourgeoise.



Gaston did not know where she met them, but she took them to her home; then she passed them on to Michel.



No one had ever met Bourgeoise, not even Michel.



Dieter was disappointed that Gaston knew so little about the woman.



But that was the idea of a cut-out.



"Do you know where she lives?" Gaston nodded.



"One of the agents gave it away.



She has a house in the rue du Bois.



Number eleven." Dieter tried not to look jubilant.



This was a key fact.



The enemy would probably send more agents in an attempt to rebuild the Bollinger circuit.



Dieter might be able to catch them at the safe house.



"And when they leave?" They were picked up by plane in a field codenamed Champ de Pierre, actually a pasture near the village of Chatelle, Gaston revealed.



There was an alternative landing field, codenamed Champ d'Or, but he did not know where it was.



Dieter asked Gaston about liaison with London.



Who had ordered the attack on the telephone exchange? Gaston explained that Flick-Major Clairet-was the circuit's commanding officer, and she had brought orders from London.



Dieter was intrigued.



A woman in command.



But he had seen her courage under fire.



She would make a good leader.



In the next room, Bertrand began to pray aloud for death to come.



"Please," Gaston said.



"A doctor." "Just tell me about Major Clairet." Dieter said.



"Then I'll get someone to give Bertrand an injection." "She is a very important person," Gaston said, eager now to give Dieter information that would satisfy him.



"They say she has survived longer than anyone else undercover.



She has been all over northern France." Dieter was spellbound.



"She has contact with different circuits?" "So I believe." That was unusual-and it meant she could be a fountain of information about the French Resistance.



Dieter said, "She got away yesterday after the skirmish.



Where do you think she went?" "Back to London, I'm sure," Gaston said.



"To report on the raid." Dieter cursed silently.



He wanted her in France, where he could catch her and interrogate her.



If he got his hands on her, he could destroy half the French Resistance-as he had promised Rommel.



But she was out of reach.



He stood up.



"That's all for now," he said.



"Hans, get a doctor for the prisoners.



I don't want any of them to die today-they may have more to tell us.



Then type up your notes and bring them to me in the morning." "Very good, Major." "Make a copy for Major Weber-but don't give it to him until I say so." "Understood." "I'll drive myself back to the hotel." Dieter went out.



The headache began as he stepped into the open air.



Rubbing his forehead with his hand, he made his way to the car and drove out of the village, heading for Reims.



The afternoon sun seemed to reflect off the road surface straight into his eyes.



These migraines often struck him after an interrogation.



In an hour he would be blind and helpless.



He had to get back to the hotel before the attack reached its peak.



Reluctant to brake, he sounded his horn constantly.



Vineyard workers making their slow way home scattered out of his path.



Horses reared and a cart was driven into the ditch.



His eyes watered with the pain, and he felt nauseous.



He reached the town without crashing the car.



He managed to steer into the center.



Outside the Hotel Frankfort, he did not so much park the car as abandon it.



Staggering inside, he made his way to the suite.



Stephanie knew immediately what had happened.



While he stripped off his uniform tunic and shirt, she got the field medical kit out of her suitcase and filled a syringe with the morphine mixture.



Dieter fell on the bed, and she plunged the needle into his arm.



Almost immediately, the pain eased.



Stephanie lay down beside him, stroking his face with gentle fingertips.



A few moments later, Dieter was unconscious.