Clash by Night Read Free

her watch. It was time to go to the school. The children would be assembling, looking to their teachers to make sense out of the current confusion. She had to get things back on an even keel, show them that their education would continue even in the event of a vanquished and occupied France.
    She left by the rear door, taking care to avoid the dispersing band of soldiers on the road.  
    * * *
    Becker stood in the main lobby of the Hôpital Sacre Coeur in Bar-le-Duc and watched as his men hung the Nazi flag. The black swastika, encircled by a white field on a background of red, draped from the overhanging balcony to fall free almost to the first floor. The thing was gigantic, a powerful message to anyone entering the building concerning who was now in charge. He stared at it gravely for several seconds, then turned as his aide Hesse approached him and saluted smartly.
    “Everything is in order, Oberst ,” the boy said.
    “You’ve told the chief of staff that I will require the resident’s wing to house my men?” Becker asked.
    “Yes, sir. And he’ll be cleaning out his office for you shortly. That’s it over there.” Hesse pointed to a door labeled Directeur.
    “How long before all the workers return to their positions here and the hospital is running efficiently again?”
    “They’re coming back now, sir,” Hesse replied in a low tone, turning so their conversation could not be overheard. “Word is getting around and the chief will be holding a meeting this afternoon to give them your instructions.”
    “Very good,” Becker nodded, looking away. Hesse was very efficient; he would oversee everything and come to his superior only with those problems he could not solve himself. “I’ll be inside there if you need me.”
    “Will you be requiring any lunch, Colonel?”
    Becker looked at him, at the silvery blond hair and wide blue eyes, and almost smiled. The kid treated him like a powerful but absent minded uncle who had to be reminded to eat.
    “Nothing, Hesse. Coffee, if you can find any in this place. I believe the kitchen help took off with the rest of the staff,” he concluded dryly, “but someone may be back there now.”
    “I’ll try, sir,” Hesse said, and saluted again, turning on his heel. Becker watched the activity of his men a little longer after his aide had left, and then went into the medical director’s office.
    It was a large, cluttered room, still stacked with the doctor’s files and papers, but it would serve the purpose once it was cleaned out and organized. Becker took off his cap, smoothing his thick black hair, lightly frosted at the temples. He gazed out the broad leaded window at the open field that backed the hospital. He sighed, wondering what his dead father would have said to find his son in this ignoble, humiliating situation.
    Becker turned from the window and removed his coat, thinking inexplicably of his wife. He sat on the edge of the desk and tried to pinpoint in his mind when it had all started to go bad: his marriage, his career, his life. Hard to say, exactly. But the final result was this unenviable posting to the outback of France, overseeing a factory conversion and acting as a babysitter to a beaten people.  
    Becker rose and loosened his collar, listening to the faint babble of French and German voices audible through the door. He patted his pockets for his cigarettes and came up with his wallet instead. He opened it and removed the picture of his two sons, examining the pale hair and pale eyes they shared, their inheritance from Elise. Then he stuffed the picture back into its compartment and tossed the wallet on the desk, his expression distant. He found his packet of cigarettes and lit one of them, inhaling deeply.  
    There was a knock on the door.
    “What is it?” Becker called, crushing his cigarette absently in the director’s ashtray.  
    “Hesse, sir.”
    “Come in.”  
    Hesse entered the room, bearing a tray.
    “Coffee, sir,” he