The Last of the Stanfields(63)
“At noon, the workers will head to the courtyard for a break. You two light the fuses. You’ll have two minutes before the explosion, and then you take advantage of the chaos to get out.”
Robert and Titon served themselves soup from a large pot hanging in the hearth above coals still burning from the night before. They needed to get something in their stomachs; they wouldn’t be back at the hunting lodge until after nightfall.
Sam Goldstein and his daughter stepped out of their room. Hanna leaned against the doorframe silently, while Sam came up to shake Robert’s hand. “Be careful,” he whispered, pulling Robert in for a tight hug. “I am hoping to never have to hold up my end of our deal.”
Hanna watched, still walled up in her world of silence. Robert waved at her, then grabbed his gear and followed Titon outside. They made their way down the path through the woods and hopped onto a tandem bicycle that lay awaiting them, Titon in front and Robert behind. Titon asked Robert if there was something going on between him and the Jewish girl. Everyone noticed the way she looked at him.
“Well, she’s a bit young, don’t you think?” said Robert.
“Il cuore pien di dibolesses,” sighed Titon in his native tongue, a patois from Treviso.
“Sorry, what does that mean?”
“It means it’s a shame to see a child’s heart so full of sorrow. But you, you’re American. Why do you come to fight so far from home?” asked Titon.
“I’m not exactly sure. To rebel against my father, I guess. My heart was full of romantic ideals.”
“Ah, so you’re a fool, then? There’s nothing romantic about war.”
“What about you? Didn’t you come from far away to fight?”
“I was born here. My parents arrived in ’25. But to the French, I’ll always be a foreigner. They don’t like us all that much. I’ve always found them to be quite an odd people. Our parents showered us with affection, but the French never even kiss their children. When I was growing up, I thought it meant they didn’t love them, but it’s simply that they don’t know how to express their feelings.”
“If they have so many flaws, why do you fight for them?”
“I fight fascists wherever they are. And next time someone asks you that question, you should say the same thing; you’ll be better off.”
Ten kilometers later, they ran straight into French militiamen at a crossroads and were stopped for questioning. Robert handed over the papers and Titon did the talking, just as planned. He explained that they were workers on their way to the factory. Titon begged the ranking officer to let them go on their way, explaining that their foreman would dock their pay if they were even a minute late.
One of the soldiers approached Robert. “What’s the matter with you? Cat got your tongue?”
Titon spoke for Robert: “He’s deaf and dumb.” The officer ordered the two men to dismount the bike.
As Robert swung his leg over the bike, the officer shoved him hard, knocking him down. Caught off guard, Robert cursed loudly. Their cover was blown. Everyone froze. Then all hell broke loose.
Even outnumbered four to two, the partisans weren’t about to go quietly. Titon lunged at the ranking officer and struck him down with a fierce right hook, while Robert wrestled another to the ground. The third soldier kicked Robert in the ribs, knocking the air out of him, then stunned him with a boot to the chin.
Titon leaped in to push the man off Robert, landing a solid uppercut, when shots suddenly rang out. The fourth soldier had drawn his gun and fired three shots, killing Titon instantly. The soldiers dragged his corpse off into a ditch, leaving a long trail of blood on the road. They handcuffed Robert, threw him into the back of their van, and took him straight to the police station.
Robert’s clothes were torn off and he was tied to a chair, naked. Three militiamen kept watch over him. Another prisoner, a woman who had been tortured, was hunched over on the ground, writhing in pain. Robert had never seen such brutality. The filth and the stench of blood mixed with urine were entirely new to him. One of the militiamen strode over to Robert and gave him two thunderous slaps across the face, knocking the chair straight over. The two other men set Robert upright once more so the militiaman could rear back and strike him again. This game lasted a full hour. Not a single question was asked. Robert fainted twice, both times brought back to consciousness by a bucket of ice water thrown over him.
Next, as the men dragged Robert toward a small cell, they passed another prisoner huddled on a straw mattress, his torso and legs covered in wounds. Robert looked at the man long and hard, until the militiaman barked, “You two know each other?”
The Resistance fighter threw Robert a surreptitious glance, silently pleading with him not to reveal their connection.
At noon, Robert was brought back to the torture room for another round of beatings. The blows rained down on him, until a policeman strolled into the room and ordered the militiamen to stand down and leave.
“My name is Inspector Vallier,” he said. “Allow me to express my regret for the treatment that you have been forced to endure here. We thought you were English . . . but you’re American, are you not? I don’t have a thing against Americans. On the contrary—Gary Cooper, John Wayne . . . doesn’t get any better than that! My wife fancies Fred Astaire, who is maybe a little effeminate for me, but I have to admit, the man sure knows how to move those feet!”