“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...”
4
Kek Huuygens took a deep breath and lay back in his chair, relaxed and oddly at peace with himself. Yes, that was how it had gone. Those were the memories, the shadows that remained in the hidden recesses of his mind throughout the years. So far they had refused to disappear completely of their own volition, or to age to decent death and be properly buried. Still, they were there, and what action would finally exorcize them? He came to his feet slowly, easily, and walked to the small bar, taking a glass of cold water, sipping it, and then placed the glass on the counter and crossed the room to the balcony doors. He opened them and stepped out into the moonlight.