Clash by Night Read Free Page A

announced, placing his burden on the desk.  
    “Hesse, you are a marvel,” Becker said.
    “I do my best, sir.”
    Becker poured the coffee and sipped gratefully, then grimaced at its bitterness. He had forgotten that the French always boiled it.
    “Well, Kurt, here we are,” he said to his aide conversationally.
    “Yes, sir.”
    “Not exactly in line with your boyhood dreams of glorious combat, is it?” Becker commented dryly. “I’m sure this isn’t what you were thinking about when you enlisted. No noble foe to be conquered here, eh?”
    The young man glanced at him nervously and was silent, unsure how to reply.  
    Becker sighed and waved him away dismissively. “Go on, boy, don’t pay any attention to me. I’m sure you have something to do. Send the director to me as soon as he finishes with his meeting.”
    Hesse watched him uncertainly.
    “Go on,” Becker repeated. “I’m fine.”
    Reassured, Hesse removed the rest of the tray’s contents and took the empty with him when he departed.
    Becker finished his coffee and lit another cigarette, noticing that Hesse had left a wrapped sandwich on the desk. He picked it up and sniffed it. Pâté. Impressed with the boy’s diligence, he pulled off the paper and took a bite. He might as well finish it. There was no doubt it would be a very long day.
    * * *
    The following morning, Laura accompanied Henri to the hospital for his interview with the German commandant. They walked up the steps to the main entrance, and Laura stopped short when she caught sight of the flag dominating the lobby.  
    The first floor was a flurry of activity. The Germans were nothing if not productive; almost overnight the place had been transformed into a barracks cum infirmary that combined both functions with Teutonic thoroughness. The sight of the gray uniforms and the sound of the harsh language, so different from the mellifluous French of the natives, assaulted Laura’s senses. Her throat closed abruptly and she had to look away. It was finally, really true. La belle France had tumbled into the ungentle hands of these grim, competent barbarians, and the fate of her adopted country was at their mercy.
    Henri started as a soldier approached them, and Laura recognized the blond corporal who had given Becker the bullhorn the day the Germans arrived.
    “Henri Duclos?” he said, looking at the older man.
    Henri nodded, swallowing. The soldier, who appeared to be in his early twenties, turned to Laura.
    “Who are you?” he said in German.
    “I am Laura Duclos, his daughter-in-law,” Laura responded in the same language. On the last word a door to their left opened and another uniformed man emerged, nodding to the corporal that they could go inside.
    The boy looked concerned. He had not expected Henri to have company. But he evidently decided to let his commander handle the matter and said briskly, “Colonel Becker will see you now.” He walked ahead of them to the director’s office and knocked. The door already bore a metal plaque with Becker’s name on it.
    “Enter,” came from within.
    The corporal ushered them inside, bowing slightly as he gestured with one hand and said, “Colonel, Mayor Duclos to see you.”
    Becker looked up from his papers, and Laura studied him, noticing the contrast between the two Germans. The boy was the perfect Aryan prototype, muscular and solidly built, with fair skin and eyes the color of an alpine spring. Becker was his opposite, dark, with an olive complexion and brown eyes with a slight Mongolian slant. In him she could see the brooding aspect of the Vandals and Goths who overran the Rhine basin during the middle ages. Tall and imperially slim, he probably derived his heritage from the Black Forest region, but she was sure he was no less a true son of the fatherland than the golden god at her side.
    “Thank you, Hesse, that will be all,” the colonel said.
    The corporal saluted and left the room. Becker’s eyes moved over the old man