Chapter 7
France
"Ernst!" Quality said. She was as surprised as he.
She had never imagined that the snooping German could be anyone
she knew.
"You know each other?" the director asked, surprised
in turn.
Ernst evidently realized that this could complicate things.
"Only in passing," he said. "Think nothing of
it. Find another person."
A sudden, bold, foolish notion came to her. "No, I will
ride with you," Quality said. Though they were speaking
in English, she was not using the Quaker plain talk. "I
am surplus, at the moment."
Ernst spread his hands. "As you wish. It is a matter of
indifference to me." Actually that was surely a simplification.
He knew her, which might help, but she had not treated him kindly
in America. Perhaps he felt alienated--or possibly he was protecting
her from the stigma of being too close to a Nazi. He knew she
would not lie about her work, or anything else, so he was willing
to work with her.
"We do have a friend in common," she said. "I
am ready to join you now."
She went with him to his car, and he put it in motion. "Had
I known it was you, I would not have embarrassed you by such a
request," he said. "I want neither a quarrel nor a
complication for you."
"If it were another person making this inspection, I might
find it more awkward," Quality said. "But though our
politics are diametrically opposed, I do respect your integrity,
Ernst. I know I can safely ride with you."
"On that much we can agree," he said tightly.
She cocked her head, almost quizzically. "We have one other
thing in common."
He was momentarily blank. Then he remembered. "Guernica!
We each lost friends there."
"Must this inspection be conducted on site, or will you
accept my answers to your questions? We have nothing to hide."
"I fear you would not care to answer all my questions."
"If we played a game of truth?"
He glanced at her. "I prefer not to discuss politics with
you again."
"I have a truly odd idea. Could we drive to Guernica, to
see what happened there?"
"But that may be three hundred kilometers by road! We could
not get there today, let alone return by nightfall."
"I do trust you, Ernst, and I want very much to see it.
This may be my only chance, because the moment my truck is fixed
I will resume my route. I think you could safely go there, as
I otherwise might not."
His surprise was growing. "You would spend the night with
me?"
"I think it does not matter what others may think. You
know that this is not a social encounter." That was certain!
He considered. "I would like to visit Guernica, and I could
accept your answers. They are likely to be more informative than
those of others I might question."
"Then go back to the office. I will notify them, and pack
some things for a two day trip."
He drove her back, and waited in the car. Still surprised at
her sudden audacity in proposing this excursion, she went to explain
things to the director. She found it hard to believe that she
was serious, but she was doing it regardless. She had never anticipated
either encountering Ernst here, or traveling with him.
She collected necessary things in a small suitcase and returned
to the car. They started off. He followed her directions to
get efficiently out of the city and onto a suitable road going
west. The farther they drove, the more the signs of the recent
war manifested. There were bombed out buildings and burned areas,
and every so often a detour where the road was in rubble. But
she knew the best route through, and they made good progress.
"I must confess something," she said. "Though
we were not friends in America, we did know each other, and it
has been some time since I have seen a familiar face from my past.
You remind me of America, ironically."
"So do you," he replied. "How is it you came
to be here? I thought you were in college there."
"When I saw Lane off to the air training in Canada, I found
I just couldn't return to my prior life. So I joined the relief
effort here. We are doing what we can to feed the children, who
have suffered grievously from a war they did not make."
"War is not pretty," he agreed.
"I soon discovered how ugly it is. I had never expected
to find myself in such a thing, but this is where the need was,
and where the need remains. Unfortunately the Nationalist government
is becoming increasingly uncooperative. The American Friends
Service Committee left Spain at the end of 1939, and our British
Friends Service Council is under increasing pressure."
"I respect the master you serve. I will do what I can to
facilitate the acquisition of the parts you need."
"We appreciate that. Can you tell me anything of your activities?"
He hesitated, and she realized that he could be engaged in secret
work. Because she had recognized him, she could give away his
original identity and interfere with his mission. "I must
ask a favor of you."
"You are in secret work?"
"Yes. If you tell others my true identity, my life could
be in danger."
This was more serious than she had thought. "I suspected
something like that. I asked the director not to talk to others
of our encounter."
He glanced at her. "Is this not deception? You do not
practice such."
"I have learned to compromise. I am not proud of it, but
now I do practice deception when it seems necessary." That
was an unfortunate understatement.
"Then I ask you to speak of me to others only as I was introduced
to you, and not to mention our prior acquaintance, for the person
I am supposed to be has not been to America."
"Agreed."
"I am with the SS, doing internal investigation."
"Then you have not been involved in killing or sabotage,"
she said, relieved.
"You exonerate me too readily. I have not personally killed
or sabotaged, but I have helped formulate plans which involve
these things. Poland, Norway, France--I am guilty."
"I should not have asked. Have you heard from Lane?"
"Nothing. I have not tried to write to him. I think such
a correspondence would bring only suspicion and perhaps discredit
on us both."
"Yes, that must be true. I have maintained correspondence.
He joined the RAF, and was in France. When the German invasion
came. He--he surely has killed--has downed enemy airplanes.
German airplanes." She tried to mask her emotion.
"It is a thing he must do. He fights for his side, as I
must fight for mine. I can only support him in that." Then
he seemed to realize that he had misread the thrust of her comment.
"But you--this is against your religion."
She was silent. He glanced at her, and surely saw that her face
was wet with tears. She had been unable to stop them.
"I can not comfort you," he said awkwardly. "I
am of the other side, in this respect also."
"Yes, you are the enemy," she murmured, oddly comforted
despite this.
They drove on in silence.
But later he spoke again. "I must urge you to do something,
for no stated reason. Return to America."
"But there is still so much work to do here!" she protested.
"Still I think it would be better for you to get out of
Spain."
That meant that the Germans might invade Spain! He might be
an advance spy for that. "I appreciate the nature of your
warning, but I can not. Not while the children remain hungry."
"It was the answer I expected. Perhaps it will be all right."
"Perhaps," she agreed. "But I thank thee for
thy concern."
It took her a moment to realize that she was now using the plain
talk. Her attitude toward him had changed, though it was not
clear to herself in quite what manner.
It was not safe to drive after dark. They came to a suitable
town and sought lodging in a hotel. "I have money,"
Ernst said. "I will obtain a separate room for you. But--"
"I know," she said. "It will be safer if we are
together. Take one room, in thy name. They will not question
it."
So it was done. They found themselves sharing a somewhat spare
chamber on the second floor. There was no hot water, and there
were roaches under the single bed, and the bathroom was down the
hall, to be shared by all the rooms, but it would do.
They went to a restaurant to eat. Quality ordered water to go
with her meal. Here they discovered that water was more expensive
than beer. But Quality would not touch alcohol in any form other
than externally medical.
"You could have milk," he said. "I will pay--"
"No. Milk is for children. I would feel guilty."
So Ernst paid the price for water, for them both.
"I apologize for embarrassing you," she said in Spanish.
They had agreed to speak only Spanish when in public, so as not
to attract attention. Her plain talk did not manifest in this
language. "I did not think of this beforehand."
"Please, no discussion," he said. "It is all
right."
But after the meal, when they were on their way back to the hotel,
she brought it up again. "I'm afraid I acted too much on
impulse. I did not think through the complications. Had I done
so--"
"May I speak plainly?"
She was taken aback. "Of course, Ernst."
"I treat you with diffidence because you evinced objection
to me in America. You are correct in this, because I am what
you take me to be. I am carrying a gun. But this is not my impression
of you. I have no objection to what you are. Rather, I respect
it, the more so now that I have discovered that you are actively
implementing your beliefs by putting yourself at risk to help
others. I regard you as a fine woman who need never apologize
for her consistency or behavior. I did not know that I would
encounter you here, or that you would choose to travel with me,
but I am extremely pleased that both occurred."
She was silent for a moment, her feelings in disarray. "That
was a bit more candor than I anticipated."
He smiled. "I believe in the truth. Yet I live a life
of deceit. I have no need to practice deceit with you."
"A life of deceit," she echoed. "I hate myself
for ever deceiving another person, yet at times it seems I have
to. I feel degraded, yet I alone am responsible."
"I am sure Lane feels similarly about killing. He does
not like it, but circumstances compel him."
"My understanding is growing. But not my ease of conscience."
"War is not kind to conscience."
They were at the hotel. They went to the room. Ernst checked
the closet and found extra blankets there. He laid these on the
floor, and set his bag on them. "I will accompany you to
the bathroom and check it before you enter," he said. "Then
I will wait outside it until you are done, and see you back to
the room. I will lock you in, and then use the bathroom myself."
"Yes." She understood why. In this war-devastated
region it was necessary to be extremely cautious. There could
be a man hiding in the bathroom, or ready to jump out on a single
woman passing in the hall, or to enter her room while her man
was away.
When he returned and unlocked the door, she was already in the
bed. He turned out the light and she heard him get into his blanket-bed
on the floor, and heard him set the gun beside his head. He settled
down to sleep.
"I thank thee, Ernst."
"Welcome, Quality."
***
Next morning Quality surprised herself again. "Thy gun--I
have not seen one. Only the damage they do."
He was surprised. "I mentioned this only in passing, not
to cause you distress."
"I am embarrassed to confess this, but the knowledge that
thee has it makes me feel safer. May I see it?"
"If you wish." He brought it out. "This is a
Walther P-38, the HP model--Heeres Pistol. One of the finest
service pistols available in Germany. It has an eight round magazine
and automatic reloading."
She stared at the thing. It seemed huge and menacing, like the
German army. "May I--?"
He reversed it, holding it by the muzzle and extending the butt
to her. She took it, and was impressed by its weight; it was
over two pounds. What a terrible instrument!
She quickly gave it back. "I hope the day comes when no
things like this exist, anywhere in the world."
"I have never used it in action," he said. "Only
in target practice. But I can not claim innocence, because I
would use it if the need arose."
They said no more about it, but the matter remained in her mind.
She felt as if she had done something forbidden, yet she was
not penitent. What was in her mind?
They reached the town of Guernica. Most of the bomb damage had
been cleaned up, and it was now much like any other town. But
not in their eyes.
"I have made a certain study of this situation," Ernst
said as they drove, seeking the address of Quality's former friend.
"In America it was represented as an innocent hamlet with
no strategic or military value. They said it was obliterated
during a market day when it was swollen with country people.
That it was an experiment in terror bombing by the Kondor Legion."
"Yes, I saw those reports," she agreed tightly.
"But in fact the Basques were rugged fighters. They gave
ground grudgingly. It required a lot of force to make them retreat.
So air power was necessary, to avoid unnecessary sacrifice of
lives." He glanced at Quality. "I am speaking tactically,
not morally."
"I understand."
"By late April, 1937, the main Basque defensive line had
been turned. Guernica was one of the two principal routes of
retreat for the Basque forces. It was a communications center.
There were three military barracks and four small arms factories
there. So it was a legitimate target. That particular raid was
given no special importance by the units involved. The primary
objectives were a nearby bridge, and any transportation and communications
facilities. The town itself was bombed as well, to block any
possible retreat of Basque troops."
"And some outlying residences."
"The assault was carried out by three Italian medium bombers,
that dropped approximately two tons of explosives, and twenty
one German bombers, eighteen of which were obsolescent JU 52's,
which dropped thirty tons of explosives. The German contingent
amounted to only a third of the Kondor Legion's force, and only
one bombing pass was made. It was not fully effective; they failed
to take out the bridge. But many bombs struck the town, where
fires spread rapidly because of wooden construction, narrow streets,
loss of water pressure and the lack of fire fighting equipment."
"But what of the human cost!" she exclaimed.
"It was just one small, routine action. It is coincidental
that we know some of that human cost. I do not think my friend
was even listed among the casualties; I learned of it through
mutual friends. The cost was great, to us, but small in terms
of military matters."
"And that human cost is echoed all over the world,"
she said bitterly. "Wherever there is war."
"Wherever there is man," he said.
They searched, but could not find where her friend had lived.
There were several similar outlying residences, deserted; some
were in rubble. There was no sign of the downed airplane; the
remnants had probably been scavenged for other uses.
They started back. "I can't even say I am disappointed,"
Quality said. "I just wanted to see whether there was anything
to see. To pay my respects to my friend, in my fashion."
"I, too, to mine."
"It is so hard to believe that this is God's will."
"According to Nietzsche, the Christian conception of God
is corrupt."
She glanced sharply at him. "Nietzsche?"
"Friedrich Nietzsche, a German who lived from 1844 to 1900,
but was said to be insane in 1889 until his death."
"I should think so!"
He smiled. "No, he was an able philosopher, and is held
in high regard in my country. I understand that his writings
influenced the Führer."
"I rest my case."
"Perhaps you should read him. It is said that it is impossible
for a person to read him carefully and remain a Christian."
"Then why should I want to read him?"
"Perhaps merely to test your faith. Perhaps to ascertain
whether the God you serve truly exists. If he does not, then
you have your answer: this destruction is not God's will."
"Why is he so certain that God does not exist?"
"He shows how the Christian God has been adapted from the
Jewish God, but refined to make man feel sinful even when he has
done nothing wrong, and to give man hope for an afterlife where
justice shall be done. Thus man both needs the priest, and has
no chance of fulfillment in this life. His hope in the beneficence
of the afterlife is vain. Thus it is hope which is the evil of
evils--the one thing left in Pandora's box."
"Hope is evil? And what of love?"
"God was made a person so that it would be possible to love
Him. The saints were made as handsome young men or beautiful
young women, to appeal to the romanticism of the worshipers of
either sex. Love is the state in which man suffers great illusions,
seeing things as they are not. Thus when man loves God, he deludes
himself, and tolerates much more evil than otherwise." He
paused. "Or so Nietzsche says.
"Does thee believe that, Ernst?"
"I got in trouble for declining to abandon the Church!
But I must say that was because I did not like having my faith
or lack of faith dictated to me. I have encountered people of
faith who are good. People like you. I do not know what my belief
may be, other than my faith in the power of my swastika."
"Thy swastika!" she exclaimed, appalled. She had forgotten
that he wore it as a silver icon, his most cherished possession.
No matter how nice he seemed, he remained a Nazi.
"For me it is an object of veneration. It has helped me,
perhaps as your faith helps you."
"What a parallel!"
He shrugged, not arguing, and she felt ashamed for her narrowness.
She might disagree with him, but she had no right to disparage
his faith. "Now we must go to Madrid."
"Madrid?"
"Where I can seek a contact, and facilitate the shipment
of your parts."
"But I haven't even answered thy questions about what we
are doing here!" she protested.
"Surely you will, before we return."
So it turned out. They drove to Madrid, where she waited in
the car while he saw some people and shopped for some fruit to
eat along the way. In due course he brought her back to Barcelona,
and the shipment of the necessary parts was being facilitated.
"If I may, I will give you this," he said, handing
her a small package.
Quality was surprised. "I have not asked anything from
thee, Ernst, or given thee anything. I don't--"
"About that I differ. You have given me the pleasure of
your company and your trust. But this is merely a book I found
in Madrid. It is in French, which I can not read, but I know
what it says. I fear you will not like it--"
"A French book? I can read it, of course. But why would
thee assume I wouldn't like it?"
"It is Nietzsche. One of the last he wrote before his madness
overcame him. But his logic is persuasive. You do not have to
agree with him, and surely you will not, but you should understand
what he says."
Quality was touched. She accepted the book. "Thank thee,
Ernst. Thee is right: I must not condemn without understanding.
I will read it."
He smiled. "I doubt we shall meet again, but if we do,
we can argue Nietzsche's case."
"I say this with a certain bemusement," Quality said
as they separated. "But I rather enjoyed our trip together."
"I, too."
Then he drove away, leaving her by the front of the office.
She waved to him with the book.
***
"I have good news and bad news," the director told
her. "The good news is that we have received word that the
parts for the truck are on the way, just when we had almost given
up on them. The bad news is that we need someone to go to Vichy
France. A trainload of refugees is supposed to be crossing into
Spain, and arrangements have to be made in Spain and in France.
Since you speak French--"
"Yes, of course," she said. She was surprised and
glad that Ernst's word had been so immediately effective; her
trip with him had justified itself, though that had not been her
reason for it. But to go to Vichy France--that was distinctly
nervous business. France had fallen only last month, and the
horror of the German advance remained fresh. It had seemed as
if the panzer divisions were never going to stop, and that they
might plunge right through the mountains to Spain. Fortunately
they had stopped, and then the Vichy regime had been set up, and
things had stabilized for the time being.
So it was that she found herself using her repaired truck not
to go out on a route, but for driving alone to France. She had
to go to Paris to make the arrangements, and the state of transportation
was such that it was best to drive across the border and to Toulouse
in France, where she could catch a passenger train. There were
risks, such as possible confiscation of the truck by the French,
but there were risks in any other course of action too.
The thing was that she had to take along a considerable amount
of money in both French and German denominations, because it was
a reality of warfare and of travel that nothing could be done
without local currency, but no money was allowed to cross international
boundaries. So it had to be smuggled across. She had not been
involved in this aspect before, and had for some time been naive
about it, but she had learned. Her pangs of conscience had settled
down to low-grade distress; there just wasn't any other way to
function here. The truck's spare tire was stuffed with the money.
With luck the border inspection would not be thorough enough
to expose it.
The truck had been fixed, but it remained balky on hills, tending
to overheat. The road to the border was mostly uphill, because
the border ran along the heights of the Pyrenees. She had to
drive slowly, and stop frequently to let the motor cool. She
was used to it. While she waited, she thought about what she
was getting into, for France was now more dubious territory than
Spain.
Apparently the swiftness of the German panzer advance was deceptive:
the Germans lacked the personnel to occupy the whole of France
directly. Probably they were still digesting Poland, and preparing
for the invasion of England. There were rumors that they were
preparing to mount a phenomenal air attack on the island, to bomb
it into submission so that there would be no effective resistance
to occupation by troops. This might explain why they were to
let roughly the southern half of France be administrated by a
French puppet government whose capital was at a spa town named
Vichy.
The Vichy regime had come into existence on June 16, 1940, under
the leadership of Marshal Philippe Petain. He was eighty four
years old, and venerated by the French population as a hero of
the War--now being termed the First World War, the current one
assuming the status of The Second World War. He sometimes pretended
to be senile as a political ploy, but he was in excellent health
and in full command of his faculties. France had not yet surrendered,
but the French had evidently concluded that it was better to have
one of their own in charge, than to have the Germans do it. Even
spread thin, the Nazis would be vicious.
Petain was given to simple statements of the obvious, such as
"The family is good. Alcoholism is bad." His first
act as leader was to declare his intent to negotiate an armistice
with the Germans. The French troops of the region began laying
down their arms immediately. General de Gaulle made a radio broadcast
from London, vowing to continue the battle against Germany, but
he received almost no support. The predominant mood in France
was that German victory in Europe was inevitable, and the Vichy
regime was attempting to solidify a favorable position for France
in the new order.
Public opinion had turned against England, because England had
abandoned France when the Germans invaded. All England had seemed
to care about was getting its own forces to safety, in the hasty
Dunkirk evacuation. Had they stayed to fight--well, who could
say? The English were lucky, the French said, to have a built-in
antitank ditch. In three weeks time England's neck would be wrung
like that of a chicken. So the disenchanted French had said as
their own country was lost.
This anti-British attitude was aggravated on July 3 when Britain
seized all French ships in British ports. At the same time the
British launched a pre-emptive strike against the French fleet
in the Mediterrarean, based at Mers el-Kebir in Algeria. They
had issued an ultimatum: either join the British war effort, sail
to a British port with reduced crews, or be disarmed and possibly
handed over to the Americans. The French Admiral made a conciliatory
counterproposal, but it was too late; the British opened fire.
Nearly 1300 French sailors were killed in the assault. In response
the French launched a rather timid air assault against Gibraltar.
Thus instead of unifying against the Germans, the British and
French were fighting each other.
Quality shook her head, watching the steam pressure in her radiator
subside in much the way of the French resistance. The follies
of war were eternal. When would men ever choose a better way
to settle differences?
The Germans did not seem to be too brutal, so far. They had
declared the historic French provinces of Alsace and Lorraine,
which were along the border, to be part of Germany. Anyone the
Germans deemed to be undesirable was simply being expelled to
France. It seemed that a lot of people were going to be moved.
This was certainly inconvenient for them, but mild compared to
what the Germans could have done.
Meanwhile the Germans seemed happy to have the cooperation of
the French administrative machine in the Vichy regime. They seemed
to be relying heavily on it to manage day to day activities.
Quality understood that the Germans had only ten thousand police
of various types available, while the French had over a hundred
thousand. Already the German troops were settling down, and truckloads
of food were following them in. The folk in the Vichy regime
had very little resentment about that!
Quality shook her head as she resumed driving. Was she becoming
favorably inclined to the Germans, because of her recent trip
with Ernst? It was not her place to take sides, and she tried
to maintain an inner as well as outer attitude of neutrality.
But there was no question that Germany was the aggressor here,
and Germany had sent the warplanes that had done much of the bombing
in Spain. She had no brief for Germany! Yet she could not condemn
Ernst, who was a good man. When she had been with him, it had
been easy to forget his nationality. Lane was right: her error
had been in judging Ernst harshly, without knowing him.
In due course she achieved the border, which was between the
Spanish town of Puigcerda and the small French town of Bourg Madame,
in a lovely high valley. Not far from here, she knew, was the
tiny nation of Andorra. There was a river, and both the Spanish
and the French had posts on the bridge, on either side.
The guards recognized the Quaker truck, for similar trucks had
passed this way before. Normally travelers and their vehicles
were searched, but in this case they were content to verify Quality's
identification, take a quick look in the back of the truck, which
was empty, and pass her through.
She felt a familiar twinge of guilt. She had lied again, by
omission. Legally, she should have declared the money in the
tire. But then she would not have been able to complete her mission,
rendering the whole trip pointless. How would it have been to
have a trainload of refugees denied, because of her conscience?
She had been forced, once again, to choose the lesser of evils.
But she felt unclean.
She was in France. It did not look like a conquered land. But
what would she find when she left Vichy France and entered the
German-occupied section, where Paris was?
Now her progress was faster, being downhill. She had no trouble
reaching Toulouse by nightfall. She paid for several day's parking
in a garage, and got a hotel room for the night. So far she had
had no trouble.
Once settled in, she returned to the truck and carefully transferred
the money from the tire to a handbag. From here on it would remain
close to her.
As she lay on the bed to sleep, she thought of the trip with
Ernst again. She tried to picture him lying on the floor across
the room. She had felt so safe with him there! She did
not approve of handguns any more than cannon, but the nearness
of that strong man with his gun had been very reassuring. She
was almost ashamed of the sentiment.
***
In the morning she went to the station. The train was late,
of course, and she had to wait two hours for it to arrive. Then
it required another hour to board. Perhaps it was just her impression,
but the French seemed horribly inefficient, as if everything had
to be reconsidered at every juncture.
Quality was glad she had taken the precaution to bring along
a book. It was the one Ernst had given her, The Anti-Christ,
by Friedrich Nietzsche. She was not a proficient reader in French,
and this was her chance to improve. Time was one thing she had,
right now. It was a small book, hardly a hundred pages. So she
read slowly, and took pains to be sure she understood it. She
learned from the introduction that the man had suffered from syphilis
and been ill for some time before succumbing completely and becoming
a child, mentally. He had been unknown, until in an irony of
coincidence, his notoriety suddenly soared during his final decade
of life, when his incapacity prevented him from knowing it. Now
he was more famous than ever, in Germany, Quality realized, because
Adolf Hitler and the Nazis liked him and were encouraging the
dissemination of his views. That might account for the presence
of a French translation in Spain. She saw that it was a used
book, however, so probably it was from someone's liquidated collection.
New books of any type were hard to come by in Spain, after the
devastation of the war.
The train moved slowly, and stopped frequently. Quality was
mostly oblivious. Her feelings were profoundly mixed. She had
sympathy for the author's illness, but not for the manner of it:
no prudent man should have indulged himself in such a manner as
to acquire such a devastating venereal disease. She was tempted
to dismiss his views as madness, but they were not; they were
a marvel of clarity. Nietzsche had had a fine mind and a clarity
of expression which came through even in translation. His Foreword
was touching: "This book is for extremely few . . .
. The reader must be intellectually honest to survive my passion . . .
. He must desire unconditional freedom . . . . He
must be a superior man in his soul." How could she argue
with that? Yet his thesis was anathema: that Christianity and
all its works were an abomination. Therefore it had to be flawed,
and she would have to work to discover the exact nature of that
flaw.
It was best, she knew, to be able to state the opposition's case.
Only when a person could do that, could he successfully refute
it. But what discipline this required of her! All of her training
and belief inveighed against it. Yet what horrified her most
was the sheer persuasiveness of the insidious logic. It
was not hard to argue Nietzshe's case. Was she being corrupted
by it? It was as if she stood before Satan--the Antichrist, literally--and
found herself tempted by his deceptively fair-seeming words.
His concept of the Ubermensch, or superman, was not at all
the racist doctrine that Hitler espoused; rather it was the universal
human cultural goal, toward which all men should strive, the Germans
among them.
The more she read, the more she was satisfied that Nietzsche
was not the man that many others claimed. His original views
were well worthy of consideration. Her task was not to try to
refute him, but simply to refine her thinking to the precision
necessary to benifit from his logic. Nietzsche, like Ernst, was
perhaps an acquired taste.
It took a day, and a change of trains, to travel the one hundred
and sixty miles from Toulouse to Vichy, but she hardly noticed.
The book held her attention throughout.
But when she got to Vichy, she was informed that they knew nothing
about the refugees. The matter was being handled in Paris, almost
two hundred miles further north. There was nothing to do but
catch another train. Somehow she wasn't surprised. Perhaps Nietzsche's
savage commentary on the human condition had prepared her for
such complications.
***
Paris really did not look much changed, except for the presence
of German soldiers throughout, in their gray-green uniforms.
When she passed close to one, she saw that his belt-buckle had
the words "Gott mit uns." She realized that that meant
"God with Us." She hoped not! This was no longer Vichy
France, but France Proper--under full occupation. The German
officials and soldiers rode public transportation free, and seemed
to be having a good time. Not that it made much difference to
her; she was here on business, and would retreat to Spain as soon
as she had accomplished her purpose.
The SS headquarters was in the Hotel de Louvre. Quality braced
herself, then went to the SS office to inquire. The sight of
the black uniformed men gave her a chill. The regular German
soldiers were bad enough, but the SS was worse. She was glad
that Ernst had been in civilian clothes; that had allowed her
to put his business at arm's length, mentally. Now there was
no euphemism possible: she was dealing with the Nazis.
"Ja, Fräulein," the officer said in German.
"I'm sorry, I don't speak German," she said in French.
"Then I will speak French," he said in that language.
"But I think you are not French."
"No. I am American. I am here on behalf of the British
Friends Service Council, in connection with a trainload of refugees
bound for Spain."
"Jews?" he asked sharply.
"They may be," she said evenly. "The Spanish
officials in Madrid did not inform us."
He checked through some papers. "Jews. From the Palatinate
area of Germany. A train will take them from Frankfurt to Paris,
but there will be a delay until we can commandeer a train to the
Spanish border. We will provide the train, but there are costs
of transport."
"They need to be fed," Quality agreed. "I am
here to buy food for them to eat along the way."
"You have the money?"
"I have French money. I hope it is enough."
His eyes narrowed. "You smuggled it across the border,
of course."
"It was the only way. The Spanish will not let any currency
leave the country."
"Let me have it."
"But it is for food!" she protested.
"It is for costs of transport. We will see that it is well
spent."
Quality realized that she would have to turn over the money,
though she distrusted this. "You will give me a receipt
for it?"
"Of course."
She brought out the packet of francs. The officer counted it
and wrote her a receipt. "This should suffice. However,
there are also the costs of the Frankfurt train. You have German
money?"
It was apparent that the SS knew what it was doing, at least
with respect to squeezing the sponge dry. She brought out her
packet of marks, and got a similar receipt for it.
"You will remain in Paris until the transaction occurs,"
the officer said. "Here is a reservation for a suitable
hotel. Check here with us daily."
She wanted to protest, but realized that it would be futile.
She would have to wait on their convenience. "Thank you."
He smiled. "We can not do too much for a devotee of Nietzsche."
He had noticed the book she carried! How would he have treated
her if she had not had it? The Nazis were in control here; they
could have had her strip-searched or worse, and could have taken
the money without giving any receipts. It was possible that Ernst
had done her more of a favor than he realized, by giving her the
book.
She turned and left the office, conscious of the officer's eyes
on her. As she emerged to the street she experienced a great
easing of her muscles. Only now did she realize how tense she
had been.
But her job was hardly over. She had to hope that it would not
take too long for the trains to be arranged, and that the money
she had brought would indeed be spent properly. This business
was already more complicated than she had anticipated.
She had some personal money in her purse, as the officer had
surely known. Would it be enough to keep her at the hotel as
long as she was required to stay? She simply had to hope so.
There would also be the expense of food for herself, and the
train tickets back to Spain.
"God will provide," she told herself. Nevertheless,
she took the precaution of stopping at a store and buying some
bread and cheese. It was cheap, and it would hold her for some
time. Then she had to hurry, because there was a curfew here.
Already the streets were clearing of all but Germans, and the
main sound was that of their boots as they went on foot patrols.
Some had leashed Alsatian dogs who evidently understood only
German commands. Some of the men, she saw, were on bicycles,
cruising silently along the streets; those would be even more
dangerous to anyone in violation of the curfew, because they were
silent.
The hotel, to her surprise, was both reasonably priced and of
reasonable quality. It seemed that the Nazis had pre-empted the
best for themselves, and she was the beneficiary. The room was
small, but it had its own bathroom and a competent lock on the
door. Both were important. There was a cart in the hall with
a pile of used books; it seemed that in this time of privation,
reading had become quite popular. She appreciated that. She
sorted through the pile and took a novel that she hoped would
be diverting. She had had enough of Nietzsche for the time being.
There was even a radio. She turned it on and listened to the
news in French as she chewed on the bread and cheese. Then she
allowed herself the luxury of a warm bath. After that she washed
her underclothing, because she had only one change. What was
supposed to have been a three day trip was being indefinitely
extended
The city remained quiet at night. But now she heard the noise
of rats inside the walls. She shuddered, closed her eyes, and
pulled the covers up over her head.
In the morning she went to the SS office and inquired. A different
officer was there, but he had the information. "The train
from Frankfurt is available. The connecting train here in Paris
is not, but progress is being made."
That was a relief. "I will inquire again tomorrow,"
she said.
"As you wish, Mädchen."
She did not respond to the somewhat derogatory implication.
She just departed before the man could think of anything else.
The longer she stayed in Paris, the more nervous she would be.
It was not just a matter of running out of money.
Meanwhile, she had a day to herself in Paris. At least she should
see the sights. That much was free. That was good, because she
discovered to her dismay that inflation was ravenous here; her
francs bought less food than they had the day before.
Armed with a little tour booklet, she set out afoot. The Louvre
was close, but it was probably closed. She had heard that even
when it was open, the art treasures had been replaced by plaster
replicas, including the Venus de Milo. So she would save that
for another time, if time offered. The Grand Opera House was
also close, but she wasn't sure how she felt about opera, and
she let that also go for now. So she started with the Tuileres
gardens. Perhaps they would be in ruins, but there might be something
worth seeing.
The flowers were beautiful. There were more types than she could
identify, and they transformed the region. She could almost forget,
for the moment, that this was a cruelly war-torn country. There
were also many impressive statues.
At the end of the gardens was a section called Place De
La Concorde, where Marie Antoinette was beheaded by the guillotine.
Quality sat there for a time among the flowers and contemplated
the events that had taken place on this historical spot. It was
a unique experience, and it made her shiver in the warm day.
She deplored violence and killing, though she had to recognize
their significance in the history of mankind. Yet how lovely
this place was now!
Then she walked on to the Seine River, where there were many
bookstalls open to browsers, but this was not her purpose at the
moment. She turned left on the Qual Des Tuileres and proceeded
about half a mile to the Hotel De Ville, and right across a branch
of the river to the Place de la Citié; where she could
see the Notre Dame Cathedral. It seemed that all the churches
were kept open by the Germans, though their philosophy hardly
supported religion. This was another wonderful step back in time.
She could almost feel the burden of the world's history enmeshed
within its heavy atmosphere. She was struck by the mystical gloom
of the sanctuary. She wished she could turn on a light, because
she could hardly make out the altar and the statues of saints.
There was no service here now, because she was here at the wrong
time, but that was just as well, because she was not Catholic.
Nevertheless, she went to kneel where ancient kings and queens
had knelt, and found it easy to imagine that some ampere of their
energy lingered there, softly vibrating in the shadows. Now she
found the darkness to be an asset, because it allowed her to picture
the historical figures there.
She emerged from the Cathedral and blinked in the bright sunlight.
This was like man's struggle to overcome his medieval ignorance
and achieve the light of modern civilization! She felt not scorn
but great sympathy. Man was not to be blamed for his ignorance;
it came with his existence. The effort was at times excruciatingly
hard, as the present occupation by the Nazis showed.
Quality walked back across the river, retracing her route to
the Place De La Concorde. Then she went to the Alexandre
Bridge and crossed the Seine again. She went straight until
she reached Les Invalides. She went around to the back
of the building to find a church. Housed within it was Napoleon's
Tomb, in a crypt. The tomb was several feet below, but she could
stand above it on a viewing platform and get an excellent view
simply by looking down. She couldn't help wondering what his
remains might look like, after all this time. Then she chided
herself for her morbidity.
She went back to the river and turned left before crossing the
bridge. This street was the Quai D'Orsay. She followed
it until she reached the Le Tour Eiffel on the left. Now
this was something she had dreamed of as a girl: seeing the Eiffel
Tower up close!
Then she crossed the river and visited the Chaillot Palace.
From there she followed the Avenue D'Iena to the Etoile
where she saw in the distance Napoleon's Arch of Triumph.
And where was he, by the end of his life? But she should not
begrudge him his monument.
It was enough for the day. She walked straight up the avenue
Des Champs Elysees until it intersected the Place
De La Concorde, which was now familiar, and followed it back to
her hotel. She had walked only about three miles in all, but
it seemed like centuries on another level. She was surfeit.
There was just no city in the world like Paris!
***
On the third day the news changed. "The Paris train is
now available," the officer said. "However, we have
received word from General Franco's administration that he has
changed his mind and will not permit the Jews to cross the Pyrenees.
Therefore other arrangements will have to be made, and you are
free to go home."
"But the money," she said. "I must take the money
back."
"I have no authority to release funds to anyone. Appropriate
application must be made and approved."
Quality felt the sinking of her heart. "How long will that
take?"
"It is hard to say. Perhaps only a week."
And perhaps never. She knew what she had to do. "Then
I must make the application. Do you have the proper forms?"
He rummaged in the desk. "It seems not. But you may write
it out on a separate sheet. We are not such sticklers as the
French for such things."
She wrote out a request, knowing that the format hardly mattered.
They were now entering a different phase of the game. She gave
it to him. "Is it all right to inquire tomorrow, just in
case there is a quicker approval?"
"Of course, Mädchen."
And tomorrow, or the day after, as her personal money ran out
and she became increasingly desperate, the officer would suggest
that the approval might be expedited if certain conditions were
met. In this manner, without violence or even open coercion,
she would become an officer's mistress. She had been warned of
the way of such things in Spain. Enlisted soldiers raped, but
officers had higher class methods.
She packed and went immediately to the train station. There
was a train to Nantes, near the coast. That wasn't where she
wanted to go, but she took it anyway. She had to be out of Paris
and far away before anyone thought to check on her. That was
why she had written out the application: to gain a day's time.
Otherwise she could have found it impossible to leave Paris.
That, too, was the way of it.
She breathed a silent sigh of relief as the train departed without
challenge. She was on a legitimate mission, until someone thought
to make a unilateral cancellation of it. If she cleared Nantes
before tomorrow morning, she should be too difficult to trace,
and they would not bother.
At Nantes she caught a train to Bordeaux, and thence to Toulouse,
exhausting her money. She was hungry, being unable to buy anything
more, but would survive.
But when she went to get her truck from the garage, there was
another problem: she had paid for only three days, and it was
now a week. She owed for four, and she had no money.
"There is a way," the garage proprietor said, understanding
her plight, which it seemed was not uncommon.
"No!" she said. She did not know what she was going
to do. She couldn't walk across the Pyrenees, even if well
fed, which she was not. It was just too far.
"You misunderstand," he said. "Look at me; I
am an old man. I have daughters your age. But your Quaker truck
will not be challenged, no?"
"Normally not," she agreed guardedly. "But smuggling
isn't--"
"It is a man. A Jew. The Boche trumped up something against
him, and took his house. He barely escaped the warrant for his
arrest. He must escape the country."
Now she understood. "You will let my truck go?"
"With a tank full of petrol. And I will give you a good
meal. If you will get him across. You can do it, when another
could not."
She realized that it was a good offer. It wasn't as if she hadn't
done this sort of thing before. "Very well."
"Thank you, thank you," he exclaimed, and she realized
how tense he had been. The Jew must be a friend, but it was dangerous
to help anyone the authorities were after. Across the border,
the Jew could make his own way. At least he would have a chance.
The garage man's stout wife gave her good hot soup, a baked potato,
and some wine. She had to refuse the wine, with apology, because
she did not drink. She knew it was well intended; in France everyone
drank wine, and it was safer than water.
Then the man caught on. "Quaker!" he said. "I
had forgotten. They do not drink. You really are one."
"I really am one," she agreed. But not as good a one
as she had been before she came to Europe. Now she was well compromised
around the edges.
She was given blankets on the floor of the warm kitchen, and
spent her most relaxed night in a week. Early in the morning,
refreshed by a breakfast of porridge, she went to the truck.
"Where is the--?" she asked.
"It is better that you do not see him. I hid him in the
back last night."
She was alarmed. "No drugs. No smuggling."
"I promise, no. Only an old man like me. You will never
know he is there, if you do not look."
That did seem best. The garage man could have hidden the Jew
without telling her, but that would have been risky, because he
needed the cooperation of the driver to get across the border.
Had she looked inside and found him, she might have thought he
was trying to steal the truck.
She drove out of Toulouse toward the border. There was no sound
from the back. But the truck overheated slightly more rapidly
than before, indicating that it was carrying a bit more. She
was attuned to it, and could tell.
She came to Bourg Madame. She suffered a chill of apprehension
as she saw that there was now a German guard at the border, in
addition to the French one. The Germans were extending their
hold on the country.
"Have you any contraband?" the German barked in French.
"No," she said, her mouth dry. She hated both the
risk and the lie.
"It is a Quaker truck," the French guard explained.
"We let them through."
"No exceptions," the German said. "Get out, woman;
we shall inspect your truck."
Quality's heart seemed to shake in her chest. But there was
nothing she could do. She got out of the truck and walked around
to the back.
"Open it!"