Page 33 of Whispers At Dawn
‘I love how you protect me,’ she had said, reading his mind.
The café heaved with people, some older like Jack and others in their early twenties, like Lizzie or younger. Jack saw at a glance, many were locals, but there were others whom he guessed had flocked to the southern city to escape the Nazi occupation.
They made their way through the crowds until they found a section near the bar where they could stand without being shoved.
Soon Jack caught sight of Marguerite, and she must have felt his eyes on her back because she turned and waved, before rushing over to them.
‘How exciting. I didn’t think you’d really come,’ she said.
‘Why?’ Jack asked.
‘Ah, you know how people are. They say one thing and do another.’
‘You’re awfully cynical for one so young,’ Jack remarked, his voice kind.
‘Yes, I suppose I am. I’m a product of my circumstances.’
And with that mysterious remark, as the band struck up a lively tune, she shouted over the music, ‘Come, I’ll introduce you to some other cynics like me.’
Jack held Lizzie’s hand as they pushed through the crowd. ‘Ignore what I said earlier about splitting up,’ he said. ‘It’s far too busy, we’ll lose each other. Let’s stay together this time.’
Lizzie agreed. ‘Alright, but if we do lose each other, let’s meet outside. We’ve only got a few hours before curfew sets in, anyway.’
They came to a sudden stop in front of a small group of young men and women who looked them up and down with suspicious eyes.
Jack and Lizzie introduced themselves and shook hands with them all, except for a surly looking man who muttered hello and turned away.
‘Don’t mind him,’ Marguerite said. ‘He’s just a grump.’
They ordered drinks, and Jack surveyed the large room, taking in the various characters, some of whom had already drunk far too much and danced in a vulgar manner. This war brought out the best and the worst in people, he thought. It made one want to live for the moment, which sometimes was a noble endeavour, but at others spiralled into a debauched lifestyle.
‘There’s someone I particularly want you to meet,’ Marguerite said, interrupting Jack’s contemplation.
‘Oh, yes?’ Jack replied. ‘Who?’
Marguerite tugged his sleeve and steered him to the corner towards a tall and wiry, earnest looking man who appeared to be waiting for them.
Jack had lost sight of Lizzie who had been talking to someone on the other side of the group. His eyes worriedly scanned the area trying to locate her amidst the crowd, but he still couldn’t see her. He reminded himself she was more than capable of taking care of herself and turned back to the man and introduced himself as Michel Dubois.
‘Good evening. I’m Lev Elias. Marguerite said you are new to the city and are looking to meet some like-minded people.’
They shook hands and fell into conversation.
One of the rules of spycraft was to trust no one. Even so, a familiar sensation in Jack’s stomach told him the game was on.
Levwas an interesting character and judging by his name he was Jewish, so he had everything to lose in this Vichy governed city if the Resistance didn’t derail the regime from its increasingly sinister Nazi agenda.
CHAPTER 15
Armand Abadie sat under the shade of an umbrella in the Place du Capitole, in the café he frequented most afternoons. He had just finished a satisfactory lunch, paid for byLa Legion Francaise des Combattants,and pushed the empty plate to one side before lighting a cigarette.
Since his recent promotion, he had the authority to sign off on the accounts, so it was easy to slip his own indulgences through as a valid expense. It was the least France could do for him after his great sacrifice. His eyes strayed to his wasted leg, and the familiar feeling of self-pity crept over him.
Some of the organisation members made a habit of lunching together, but he didn’t enjoy groups. He liked people watching. Toulouse had become a cesspit of the dregs of society, since thousands of Spanish Republicans piled in, seeking refuge from the civil war and the Franco regime. And there were thousands of Jews, too. They had long been a bitter pill for Armand to swallow. They’d been flooding into France for as long as he could remember, but since the occupation, it had become unbearable. They came from all over, and just the thought of them taking over his beloved city made his stomach churn.
Since Armand tasted a slither of power, he had made it his personal mission to rid the city of such lowlifes. His thoughts flickered back to his arch-nemesis in the army. He was a French born Jew who had been in the same regiment as Armand in WW1 and was a constant irritation. Whatever the Jew did, he excelled, and Armand’s jealousy burned with an insatiable rotten fury. It grew so bad; nightmares of Abraham, making him look inferior by contrast, plagued his patchy sleep.
One morning, as he sat on guard duty, he plotted Abraham’s murder. At first, he didn’t take his fantasies seriously, and merely enjoyed the bloody scenarios that played out in his mind, whilst the minutes dragged, and his stomach growled for the next pitiful meal.
