3

It had not been difficult to enter the large house undetected; ever since he and Stefan had met four years earlier as entering students in the Art College of the university, the Hochmann house had been a second home to him. He therefore used a little-known and long-abandoned door that led from an old icehouse to the small pantry adjoining the huge kitchens. The Germans were on the roads as well as in the air, and he had no intention of being detained and questioned before his mission had even started. A radio blasting from a light pole in the square in Targówek as he had come through, walking warily, approaching the bridge, had announced the passage of enemy troops through Molotov and Kielce, and said the Germans were closing in on the city. Even the government spokesman, quoted blandly by the radio, doubted if the line on the east shore of the Wisla, running erratically from Praga to Brod, could be maintained in face of the merciless bombardment.

He paused, listening carefully. The kitchens were silent, except for the humming of the new electric refrigerator; those servants who had not already fled were probably in the upper reaches of the house, hastily packing for evacuation, or watching the tiny antics of the planes in the sky to the north from the foolish vantage point of the undereave dormers. A quick cautious step and he was at the angle of the main hallway, looking down past the large dining room and the library toward the two wide drawing rooms in the front, facing the Jez Czerniakowskie. The passage was deserted. Feeling a bit safer here in the cool dimness of the friendly corridor, and with the familiar spring of the thick carpet beneath his feet, he moved guardedly toward the front of the house, intent upon finding Stefan.

The sound of voices coming from the front drawing room made him pause uncertainly; the person speaking, of course, was Stefan, but the high, slightly stuttering pitch that usually made him smile a bit in pity now sounded rather imperious. Poor Stefan! Still, he was Jadzia’s brother, and that counted for something. In fact, he realized, it counted for everything. He started forward and then stopped again, suddenly this time. There had been a response in German, authoritative but not argumentative. His eyes narrowed as he moved automatically to the wall as if for protection; he scanned the empty hallway once again, quickly, intently, and then stepped into the library, closing the door silently behind him. Whatever the reason for a German-speaking visitor, his own presence must remain undisclosed until the other had left and he could see Stefan alone. The hastily formed student committee needed money to fight the enemy, and his assignment had been to contact Stefan. Since the death of the old Count and Countess Hochmann the year before, Stefan was a very rich young man. And despite some of his rather wild notions and his tremendous inferiority complex, he was still his friend, still his future brother-in-law, and more important at the moment, he was still a Pole.

The library was sunny, with the drapes pulled wide, giving out onto a lovely view of the formal gardens beyond, running down to the edge of the lake. He moved to the windows and began tugging the drapes shut; one of them refused to close and he abandoned it, stepping back, instead, from its view. It was odd how, in the quiet of the huge book-lined room, the steady drone of the planes above seemed almost peaceful; they might have been a local flying club out for an afternoon’s sport, or a particularly large swarm of bees investigating the roses. Even the dull booming coming from the center of the city to the north did not appear threatening, but more like a fireworks at a festival fair.

It was all too appallingly sudden, he thought desperately. We have not been permitted the time to appreciate its true horror or its terrifying reality. To us, in our shock, it is still playacting, simply because it cannot and must not be what it really is. In the evening, when the warm September sun has set, it will prove to have been for our entertainment, rather than our destruction; and the characters will wipe the grisly greasepaint from their furrowed faces and then go home; and the ruins will cease to smoke and will spring back up, possibly even refurbished; and the dead will climb smilingly to their feet and return, perhaps even a bit reluctantly, to the weary business of their everyday lives.

He turned from the somnolent and falsely peaceful view offered by the recalcitrant drape, and began making the rounds of the room restlessly. The murmur of voices from the drawing room beyond could still be heard faintly. The door of the library opened suddenly, unexpectedly, frighteningly, but before he could react to the shock of panic and try to seek some sort of shelter, he saw with relief that it was unnecessary. Jadzia had come into the room and was moving with that purposeful, boyish stride of hers toward the desk before the fireplace, lightly humming a tune; it struck him as odd in view of the tragedy of the day. She paused, the tune fading, surprised at finding the drapes closed, and then swung about. He saw her blanch at sight of him, catch her breath, and then hastily return to close the door and bolt it. He frowned curiously as he walked toward her.

“Darling; what’s the matter?”

“Mietek! You fool! What are you doing here?” His arms went out to her but she stepped back, her green eyes furious. “Keep your hands off me! You have to get out of here at once! Mietek! Are you listening to me?”

Mietek. Mietek Janeczek. After fifteen years it was even difficult to remember one’s own name. Certainly, today it was extremely doubtful if he would look up at hearing it called out in a restaurant or on the street, or pay particular attention at hearing it mentioned on the radio. Still, there was no denying it had been the name he had been born with, had grown up with. Mietek Janeczek—even the name sounded strange, but no more strange than the picture of that young, innocent, foolish boy who carried it.…

Despite the rebuff and the tenseness of the moment, he could not help but feel a tendency to smile. He had seen Jadzia in her furies before, although never one directed at himself. It always struck him as comical to see a beautiful girl in her late teens so angry as to stamp her tiny foot. She looks like a small child deprived of a favorite toy, he thought; or a sleek cat of its dinner.

Jadzia gripped his arm with a strength he had never witnessed nor suspected before. “Stop your idiotic grinning! Mietek, listen to me! You have to leave here at once, do you hear?”

His smile faded; he shook his head as much in bafflement at her attitude as in denial of her demand. “You don’t understand, my darling. I came here to see Stefan, but he’s busy. The students have formed a defense committee, and we need money for arms. We——”

“You are a fool!” She stared at him as if amazed he could be so youthfully naïve. “You come to a Hochmann for help? Do you know who is in the drawing room with Stefan? Wilhelm Gruber!”

Wilhelm Gruber.… Now that he recalled, it was the first time he had heard the name, but certainly not the last. Gruber, the monster; Gruber, the unspeakable; Gruber, the animal; Gruber, the vicious, murdering …! Not now, the man in the chair instructed himself harshly; this is no time to indulge yourself in the luxury of hate.

He locked his big fingers and squeezed with all his strength, bringing pain, and then released his grip, forcing himself to relax. Go on with the memories and get them over with. Unless André is mistaken—and I doubt it—I think I know at long last where Wilhelm Gruber is.…

His eyebrows rose. “And who the devil is Wilhelm Gruber?”

“He’s been appointed S.S. Oberfuehrer for this district, and he’s going to use this house as his headquarters. He’s a very big man in the Party. And handsome, too, if you want to know. His staff will be arriving at any minute. If you’re found here—” her voice hardened “—everyone will suffer.…”

“Suffer?”

“Mietek, don’t be a stubborn fool! The soldiers are looking for you. I heard them talking about it just now.”

His surprise deepened into a queer sense of unreality. “Why should the soldiers be looking for me?”

“Don’t pretend!” Jadzia was beginning to get seriously angry. “A German sergeant was shot and killed in Kielce this morning, by a civilian. Stefan heard the description of the killer; several other soldiers saw it happen. Stefan told Colonel Gruber it sounded very much like you.”

“I don’t believe you!” The air of unreality thickened; he seemed to see her pretty face through a haze. He reached out, locking his big fingers cruelly on her shoulder, glaring down into her large eyes, amazed at his anger at her, made all the fiercer because of her very desirability. “You’re lying! You’re lying! Stefan would never say anything like that about me!”

“You’re hurting me,” she said, almost curtly. Despite his anger his grip relaxed. She pulled herself away. “And keep your voice down! Did you kill that soldier?”

“Of course not! I wasn’t in Kielce; and you know how I feel about weapons! But what if I had? They’re the enemy, they invaded our country!” He ran his hand through his thick hair almost in desperation. “Why would Stefan say anything like that? Why?”

“You forget our name, Mietek.” Her voice was cold, but a touch of pride had entered it. “Hochmann is a German name, you know. And we are proud of it. Why shouldn’t he say so if you were guilty?”

He shook his head in bewilderment. “But you’re Poles!”

“Labels mean little today. The future means everything—and that lies with the Nazi Party.”

He stared at her, amazed at the adult tone, at the change in her. “I can’t believe it!”

“Whether you believe it or not, you have to leave. For everyone’s sake.” There was a peremptory tone to her voice, not the demanding request he might have expected from an imperious young girl, but the authoritative instruction of a much older person. Jadzia even looked different—older, sterner, triumphant somehow. What had happened to her in the short week since he had seen her last? What had happened to everything? The world had gone mad! He wet his lips.

“When will I see you again?”

Her eyes held his evenly. “I don’t know. Possibly never. Or possibly when this is all over. The Germans are going to win this war, and win it quickly. Only the fools in London think differently. In a month or less it will be over. We’re—they’re too strong; too prepared. They’ve been denied too long. Willi—Colonel Gruber says——” She caught her words, as if realizing she was wasting valuable time. “You have to leave. Now!”

He stared at her blindly. “But you say the soldiers are looking for me. For killing somebody.…”

“If you didn’t kill him, there’s nothing to worry about. They’ll find the one who did. Colonel Gruber’s not an unfair person, he’s simply doing a job that has to be done.” Her hand went to his arm, urging him toward the door. “Now you have to go. I’ll keep them occupied in the drawing room while you get out.”

“Wait!” He pulled back, his voice bitter. “If you feel the way you do, why not turn me in to them?”

“Because Colonel Gruber might think we’re protesting too much.” Her voice was quite matter-of-fact. “He’s still not convinced of our beliefs. He might think we were using you as a smoke screen. No; it would be better for everyone if you just disappeared.” She studied the shocked look on his face quite impersonally. “Well, you wanted to know.… Now you’d better be going.”

He stood numbly while she went to the door and turned the key. Her eyes came up briefly for one last enigmatic look at him. “Goodby, Mietek.…” And then she was gone.

“Goodby Mietek.…” Today, fifteen years later, the hurt of that last meeting, the confusion of it, the bewilderment of it, had faded, although it had never completely disappeared. What had not faded, but instead had grown in intensity with each return of memory, was his consuming, passionate hatred of Wilhelm Gruber. And why didn’t he hate Jadzia equally? Or did he? Huuygens stirred restlessly in his chair, his jaw clenched tightly.

Where had he been when he had heard the news of his family? In Volócz, actually; he had just crossed the border into Hungary, traveling on false Dutch papers the student committee had managed to arrange. Dutch, he recalled, because he spoke the language, having studied it to further his interest in the Dutch painters, and because Holland was not in the war as yet; and also because the rarity of such a passport in Poland at that time made critical examination less likely. It had proven to be a good selection.

In any event, he had gotten as far as Volócz and was in the small café attached to the ramshackle railroad station, waiting for a train to take him to Budapest, and the radio was blaring martial music.…

The coffee was terrible, tasting of chicory and moldy wheat; the curdled milk skimmed the grayish surface in weird and obscene swirls. The cake was stale and looked as if the mice had been at it and had rejected it. Still, one had to eat, and he preferred not to be seen unnecessarily pushing his way through the corridors of the train, or seated across from an unknown companion in the dining car, attempting to make—or avoid—conversation.

He managed as much of the distasteful combination as he could, and came to his feet, reaching into his pocket for some change. Over the babble of voices in the smoke-filled room, he noted that the martial music had stopped, that the announcer was now speaking in Polish.

“This is Radio Warszawa.…”

The words were barely distinguishable above the chatter of the diners in the room and the drinkers at the bar; he heard them without conscious volition. He studied the coins in his hand, picked out the exact amount of his bill to conserve his limited funds, placed it on the counter, and was just turning toward the door when the words coming from the small box in one corner made him pause. It was a news broadcast, as most of them were, lately, and he suddenly felt homesick at hearing his native tongue spoken amid the strange jargon about him. At the moment it satisfied his needs even more than the facts from the front. In any event, as he had already bitterly learned, the news these days was so colored either by direct Nazi broadcasts, or by more-than-willing collaborators, as to be almost meaningless.

“… in Radom. In Praga, the destruction of the oil-storage facilities, two miles from the center of this suburb of Warszawa, continues under constant dive-bombing attacks by Stukas. Fortunately, due to the extreme accuracy of the trained pilots, civilian casualties are practically nonexistent.… In Warszawa itself, the family of terrorist Mietek Janeczek, the student who murdered a sergeant of the 88th Tank Regiment in cold blood in Kielce last week, has been seized by the authorities and shot on orders of Colonel Wilhelm Gruber, S.S. Oberfuehrer of the Warszawa district, as an example to all other assassins and saboteurs that acts of terrorism will not be tolerated by the government.

“Colonel Gruber made it clear that this announcement is being made as a warning to all subversives, and that he is certain that all right-thinking Poles, aware of the dangers of communism and its ally, International Judaism, will recognize the justice of the act.…

“In Poznan, the pacification of the city continues. German troops have opened their field kitchens and hospitals to women and children, and plans are under way to establish temporary housing for innocent victims of the Polish aggression.… In Berlin.…”

He remained, half-bent to retrieve his suitcase by the door, frozen in shock and disbelief. A waiter, passing, paused to frown at the wide eyes and twisted face, and then shrugged and went on about his business; drunks were becoming more frequent with every passing day, and younger, too. Mietek forced himself to come erect, his suitcase locked in a grip of iron, and stumbled through the doorway.

The brisk, fall breeze blowing across the railroad platform did nothing to revive him. A choking sensation and a dangerous buzzing in his ears made him realize he was near to fainting; he let his suitcase slip from his hand and slumped upon it, bending his head in his hands, locking his fingers in his thick hair. They could not be dead! It was impossible! The man on the radio was lying—it was a trap to bring him back to Warsaw! Dead? His father? Impossible! And even more impossible, his mother and younger sister.

It was all a mistake; he had misunderstood; he had heard the radio incorrectly. Who would possibly want to harm any of them? Riesek Janeczek, gentle scholar, retired from his medical practice to dabble in his laboratory, always sitting as far back as possible in his easy chair, looking at the foibles of the world with a faint smile on his face as he calmly puffed his pipe.… Frania Janeczek, nee Lochner, mother, teacher, confidante; always bustling about on one friendly errand or another, always cheerful, so proud of her family, and pretty in a way he had never realized until this moment.… Little Marysia—little? Almost fifteen.… He groaned and swallowed the bile in his throat, and then raised his head to stare blindly along the deserted tracks.

Return? Even as the thought flared up in him of getting back to Warsaw somehow, some way, to strike down the vicious criminals who had done this monstrous thing, he rejected it coldly and firmly. Those few moments on that railroad platform had transformed him from an adventurous boy into a dedicated man; a man prepared to play the murderous game by the rules established by the enemy. Revenge? There would be revenge! But it would be on his terms, and not those of Colonel Wilhelm Gruber, S.S. Qberfuehrer of Warsaw. And at a time and place of his choosing.

His jaw locked painfully as he thought of his parents and sister. Exactly where had they been killed? In that large, airy apartment he had always loved so much? Immediately after the sharp rap on the door? In the street below, with the neighbors watching in horror, a few minutes later? In a prison, lined up against a wall, blindfolded, handcuffed? Had his father kept his calm smile throughout, taking it as only one more frailty of a world sick with madness? Had any of them begged for a life taken without any justification? Had Marysia cried for all the lost things she would never see, never know, never experience? And when they had fallen, had anyone taken a revolver and walked over, thrusting it down, brutally pressing the trigger? First on one, and then the second, and then the last? He turned swiftly and vomited violently over the edge of the platform and then leaned back, his face ghastly, wiping his lips convulsively, shuddering, trying to erase the gruesome image from his mind.

Of what great crime had they been guilty? Of gentleness, perhaps; of goodness—illicit qualities in this new world dominated by murder and destruction. Of innocence, certainly; a far greater and more dangerous crime. As innocent as Jadzia, who saw in the war only the possible aggrandizement of Germany and the Nazis. What would be her reaction now? She had always been so fond of his parents, even as they loved her and had looked forward with eagerness to her becoming their daughter-in-law. How would she justify this murderous crime? Or would it make her open her eyes to the monster headquartered in her home?

In the distance a train wailed; the rusting rails before him began to hum. He came to his feet slowly, numbly, automatically dragging his battered suitcase to a safer margin from the platform’s edge, and then stood mute and drugged among the chattering cluster of passengers and well-wishers as the hissing engine crept into the station spitting steam. He waited until only the stragglers had not been accommodated, managed his way into an overloaded compartment, slid his suitcase into the overhead luggage rack on top of somebody’s poorly tied bundle of clothing, and then edged to the comparative freedom of the narrow corridor. The train had finally ingested its human cargo and was straining to be off; one last exhortation by the uniformed guards to the couples locked in a final embrace across the compartment sills, and the engine started up asthmatically, tugging at itself with groans and clanks.

Mietek stared out of the dusty window, his rigid face a mask. Beneath his feet the worn linoleum of the corridor began to throb with accelerating clatter from the uneven rails. Gru-ber! they said angrily; Gru-ber, Gru-ber, Wil-helm Gruber, Wil-helm Gru-ber, Wilhelm Gruber, Wilhelm Gruber, Wilhelmgruber, Wilhelmgruber, wilhelmgruber, wilhelmgruber, wilhelmgruberwilhelmgruberwilhelmgruberwilhelmgruber … The engine in front responded with a hoarse scream.

Huuygens stirred restlessly in his chair and shook his head as if to clear it. The room was now completely dark; the moonlight filtering in between the curtain and the sill was lost before it reached the rug. He sighed. What memory next? The wasted eight months in Paris before the capitulation of Vichy? Wasted because they had been spent in vainly trying to contact Jadzia—or rather, in waiting for an answer? Certainly one of the letters he had managed to smuggle into Poland should have been delivered!

A pointless consideration, then as now, he thought with wry bitterness. Forget it. Go on to that night in the cave. There’s still work to be done when we’re finished.…

Georges was in the lead, as always; slim, intense Georges Claremont, slogging along in the thick mud, his rumpled beret pulled low, his tattered sweater buttoned to his chin, now coughing almost constantly, and suffering even greater spasms from attempting to stifle the racking sounds. November in the Auvergnes was no place to be: the upper slopes threatened snow, and the Boches were thick in the vicinity. Behind Georges came André Martins, the giant from Perpignan, his own rifle slung over his back, that of Georges in one hand, and his ever-present suitcase in the other. Both bandoliers were slung about his corded neck like grotesque necklaces. He carried the load effortlessly, swinging along easily behind Georges, softly humming a flamenco tune from one of the border gypsy tribes. Third in line he came, Kek Huuygens now, one year in the underground, attached with fierce pride to the men he worked with, even as he was attached to the killing. He cradled their precious battery radio wrapped in a bit of oil-silk recovered from an abandoned parachute; his rifle was hung carelessly from his shoulder like an afterthought. And finally, in the rear, Michel Morell, quiet, watchful Michel, a lashed pack on his back which contained their worldly possessions: two spare pair of socks per man, far too little ammunition, and even less food.

The trail they followed lay beneath sodden trees, dripping from the late autumn storm which had passed but now threatened to return, possibly carrying sleet or snow from the summit above. Georges suddenly halted, caught in a paroxysm of coughing, doubling over, fighting uselessly against the violent attack. André moved forward at once, laying aside his burden, reaching out to support the smaller man, almost raising him with his enormous hands. Georges bit his lip and then exploded in another coughing fit. André turned to the others, worried.

“We’ll have to find someplace to spend the night.…”

They looked about silently, their breath steaming in the cold dampness. The gray hills, mounting ever higher, were losing their outline in the growing mist and darkness. The trees, black against the gray, stood like sentries, watching. Georges fought to bring himself under control; he pulled back, straightening up, loosening André’s grip from his sweater, panting.

“We can still make another hour tonight. Kek has to be in Mauriac tomorrow with the radio. Without fail. And we’ll be getting our instructions on the eleven o’clock broadcast tonight.”

“So we’ll wait for our instructions,” André said harshly, and shrugged. “What difference does it make? Here or higher up? Where it’s even colder and nastier?”

Georges shook his head stubbornly. “I’m sure we’re going to be told to meet the others in the neighborhood of Saignes. Soon, sometime in the next day or two. And the more we make tonight, the less we’ll have to do tomorrow. And the higher we go, the less chance of running into the Boches.…” The coughing fit returned, interrupting him. He bit down on it, struggling to catch his breath.

Michel eyed him a moment and then leaned forward. “There’s a cave near here we can stay in,” he volunteered with his usual quiet levelness of tone. “I used to come up here for walks on Saturdays.…” The others regarded him with surprise; Michel had never mentioned being from this district. But then he had mentioned very little of himself in the nearly eleven months they had been assigned together. “Yes,” he added quietly, and nodded. “I used to teach grammar school in Cantal. My home is there.”

André frowned. “Cantal? Your home is there?” He tipped his head toward Georges, lowering his voice. “Is there any chance …? He’s a lot sicker than he thinks, you know.”

“No.” Michel’s voice was completely emotionless. “My wife seems to prefer the Boches. It would be impossible.” He turned, staring up the mountain, studying the terrain. “The cave is less than a quarter of a mile from here. Up above. We’d better get there before the rain starts again.”

He moved to the front of the group, taking the lead. They swung from the trail behind him, moving silently through the gaunt stands of chestnut and pear trees, their legs soaked from the tall grass and thickets of sodden bushes. André slipped the second rifle across his shoulder; his free hand was used to support Georges. Kek slipped on a muddy patch and went down, but he held the radio high, protecting it, and then clambered back to his feet and followed.

The cave was a darker shadow on the gray hillside, ringed by a series of gorse clumps, offering small protection from weather or sight. Michel held up his hand; they paused, panting, while he crept forward alone to investigate. A moment later he was waving them forward.

Georges was placed as far to the rear of the shallow depression as was possible; the huge André stripped off his thick jacket and wrapped it about the other’s shoulders, refusing the weak protests. Michel dropped his pack near the entrance and took up his position there, squatting down and staring out into the dusk and the drizzle that was beginning again, his rifle nestled in readiness across his knees. Kek unwrapped the radio with almost loving care, placed it on the folded oil-silk for protection against the mud of the cave floor, and knelt beside it, turning it on, warming it up, and rubbing his hands for warmth as he did so. The small box came to life with a sharp squeal, instantly muffled by the boy’s hand. From the rear of the cave Georges began to say something and then was caught in a torrent of coughing. He forced it down, speaking harshly.

“Turn off the radio. My coughing makes enough noise without that.”

“I just want——”

“Turn it off! We’ll be listening to it at eleven. And we have to save the batteries.”

“There’s plenty of life in these,” Kek said stubbornly, and bent closer to the small, cloth-covered speaker, playing with the knobs. “Besides, they have more batteries in Mauriac.” Voices mixed with static hummed in the small enclosed space.

Turn it off!” André said shortly. “You can hear that damned thing for miles! The Boches aren’t deaf, you know.”

“On a night like tonight the Boches are all inside, sitting in front of a fire somewhere,” Kek said doggedly. “I just want to get the news.” He twisted the knobs with the delicate care of a safe-cracker dialing a particularly tricky combination. Suddenly a voice in French came on, clear and loud; the boy instantly turned the volume down, bending closer, adjusting the fine tuning.

“Damn it …!” André began hotly, but Kek held up his hand, commanding silence. In the small space the disembodied voice from the box seemed to whisper. Despite themselves, the men in the cave bent toward the sound, listening intently. Somewhere beyond the cold and discomfort of the tiny cave, beyond the constant fear of the hunted, men actually lived in warm rooms, were well dressed and well fed, walked the streets openly, instead of skulking from tree to tree; and more important, were able to communicate.

“… the Pacific, the Japanese continue to punish the Americans, pushing them back. Three battleships and two destroyers were reported sunk in air raids conducted from Japanese bases, with considerable loss of life. There are no reports of Japanese losses in the action.… On the eastern front, the drive for Moscow is now in full swing, and it is expected that the troops of the Reich will celebrate the New Year in what—until now—has been known as Red Square.…

“In Paris, the big news is not of war but of a more pleasant subject. Tomorrow, high German officials will attend the wedding at Notre Dame cathedral of General Wilhelm Wolfgang Gruber and the Fräulein Jadzia Hochmann. Fräulein Hochmann is the sister of the well-known Polish patriot Stefan Hochmann. There is speculation whether the Fuehrer himself may be present.…

“In Berlin …”

André reached over with a huge, hairy hand and twisted the radio knob, switching it off. He snorted in disgust.

“Social notes, yet! For this we waste our batteries! For garbage like this we take a chance of being heard and caught. And shot!” He paused, uncertainly, staring through the growing darkness of the recessed cavity. “Kek. Kek! What’s the matter?”

Huuygens was sitting with his young, shaggy head bent, as if under a guillotine; even as André watched him in amazement, the boy’s large fists clenched tightly and then began to pound the mud floor of the cave with a slow rhythm that was terrifying in its approach to insanity. André frowned at him, astounded.

“What in the devil …?”

The gray eyes of the youth came up, chips of black granite burned deep into the ashen, streaked face. He looked through André without seeing him and drew back his lips like an animal attacked. His voice was more the voice of age than that of youth, almost hypnotic in the intensity of its hatred.

“I’ll kill him. I’ll kill the monster.…”

“What the devil …?”

The boy’s fingers became talons; he held them poised a moment and then plunged them into the earth floor of the cave, ripping, tearing, ravishing the rock beneath the mud, shredding his fingernails in a bloody passion of fury. “I’d give a million francs to have that vicious bastard’s neck between my hands for one minute …!”

“Stop it! And keep your voice down!” It was an unfair criticism; Huuygens’s growlings were the low animal-sounds of a beast suffering its pain without the release of noise. André clamped a large hand on the boy’s arm. His eyes narrowed as comprehension slowly came to him. “Gruber.… He’s the one you’ve told us about.”

Kek’s head remained bent as his passion spent itself. He shuddered as he brought himself under control and then came to his feet slowly, rubbing his muddy, bloody fingers on his trousers. He stepped over the now-silent radio, moving as if in a trance to the entrance of the cave. “I’m going to Paris,” he said in a harsh voice that defied opposition. “Someone else can take the radio to Mauriac.” His tone indicated that they could leave it behind, or even drop it in the Loire, for all he cared.

From the rear of the cave Georges spoke in a rasping whisper. “No. You’re going to Mauriac. That’s an order.…”

“No,” Kek said quietly, simply, and turned to find himself facing Michel, who had risen and was standing with his rifle held horizontally, barring the narrow entrance.

“You’re going to Mauriac,” Michel said evenly. He might have been back teaching school, explaining the reason for a poor grade to a student. He might also have been a man standing, barring passage to freedom, with a gun “Paris can wait. And will. So will your Wilhelm Gruber and your Jadzia Hochmann.” He raised one hand, forestalling interruption; the other remained quite firm with its rifle poised. “Yes, you’ve told us about them both, many times. They can wait. But Mauriac can’t. They need that radio urgently.”

“You don’t understand.” There was a tremor in the strong young voice of the boy, a tremor he thought he had outgrown in the past few moments, if not in the past year. “You don’t understand.…”

Michel’s teeth momentarily flashed white in the deepening shadows.

“I don’t?” he asked softly, and then tilted his head. “Just over these mountains—an hour’s stroll on a clear day; no more, I assure you—is Cantal and my home. And my wife, whom I love very much. And sharing her bed every night of the week is a Boche lieutenant.” His voice remained emotionless. “And tomorrow I will go to Saignes—or wherever we are sent—and not to Cantal. And tomorrow you will go to Mauriac with the radio, and not to Paris.” He paused a moment, and then continued gently. “Because, my young friend, that’s the quickest way to where you really want to go.”

Kek stared at him wordlessly. The thin face before him was a blur blocking his exit; the hands holding the rifle were now relaxed and far from threatening. With a muttered exclamation he turned and stumbled back inside the cave, slumping down beside the radio, unmindful of the damp cold of the cave floor, or the growing pain from his torn fingers.

“You shouldn’t go around offering million-francs like that,” André said dryly. “Somebody might take you up on it some day.” He studied the expressionless face of the boy a moment longer and then looked up. “Hey! Michel! How about digging down in that pack of yours and seeing what you’ve got to eat? Preferably pressed duck.…”

“With truffles?”

André shook his head in disdain. “You can’t drink truffles. See that you find a bottle of nice, dry champagne in there. Something from the year 1920, preferably.…”