The captain remained at attention, silent, his cheeks flaming.
Meier paced for a few moments and then circled his desk. “At ease,” he said.
The captain complied, noticing that, curiously, the commander suddenly looked deflated, even defeated.
Meier picked up an envelope from the desk. He opened it, pulled out a document, and scanned it. Then he circled the desk again and stood in front of Bergmann as if he were reluctant to speak.
“I am directed to inform you,” he said at last, “that the background investigation for your application to the SS has been completed, and that you are accepted. You will transfer with your current rank, effective immediately. For the moment you are to remain on my staff until you receive further orders. Your command will be turned over to your executive officer until I select your replacement.” He folded the document, returned it to its envelope, and handed it to Bergmann. “Congratulations.”
A slow smile had begun to spread across Bergmann’s face. “So, my bloodline is pure back five generations,” he breathed. “No Jewish blood.” He became effusive, breaking unbidden from his “at ease” stance and reaching to shake Meier’s hand.
“Thank you, sir. This is the best news.”
“I’m sure it is,” Meier said, retaining his reserve but taking Bergmann’s hand.
As the two men stood facing each other, both perceived a shift in relative authority. Bergmann straightened his back, his face becoming stern. “Thank you again, sir.” He locked eyes with the commander. “I shall call SS higher headquarters immediately to discuss where I might best serve.”
“Do you have something in mind?”
“I do, sir. I intend to root out these partisans who think they can stand in the way of our führer’s plans. I will start with the group hiding the Bouliers.”
Meier returned to the other side of his desk with an air of being forced to accept an unpleasant inevitability. “Keep our conversation in mind. We can have no more capricious executions. My advice to you is that you do not let this investigation become an obsession.”
“I assure you, Herr Meier,” Bergmann replied with a glint in his eyes and a frozen smile, “I will not forget our discussion.” Without waiting to be dismissed, he clicked his heels, inclined his head forward sharply, and crossed to the door. On opening it, he spun about and extended his arm in a full-length salute. “Heil Hitler!”
14
Two days earlier, June 15
Saint-Nazaire, France
A scene like none they could have imagined greeted Jeremy and Nicolas as they entered Saint-Nazaire, situated on the north bank of the Loire River estuary where it ran into the Bay of Biscay on France’s Atlantic coast. Despite the ancient town teeming with British and French soldiers, as well as other allied soldiers from Poland, Belgium, Czechoslovakia, and Canada, the war seemed a peripheral concern. It spawned a raucous carnival atmosphere with dark undertones driven by the overriding concern: personal survival, and a hoped-for rescue by the British Royal Navy.
The soldiers’ moods ran a spectrum from abject despair to accepting inevitable capture, with hordes celebrating whatever hours of freedom they had left. Others, calculating the odds of rescue of so many by sea while the Germans closed in and routinely strafed from the sky, decided their overland chances looked better. They headed out on foot to Switzerland, southern France, or Spain.
Some soldiers were still fully outfitted for combat including rifles slung across their backs, while others had shed their kits and overcoats and stripped down to trousers and undershirts. Small groups clung to a semblance of military decorum, but the majority had reverted to boisterous first-name basis regardless of rank and wore wild-eyed expressions that dared anyone to try to impose authority.
Jeremy and Nicolas entered this maelstrom with the second overriding concern on everyone’s mind: food, and where to get it. To that end, the two newcomers observed British soldiers standing guard outside of a gentlemen’s club, presumably for pay. Another escorted young girls with nuns bound for a Catholic school. Others served or washed dishes in restaurants. Jeremy and Nicolas watched as one Brit asked a senior non-com where he could find something to eat. The non-com told him to hold his cap out, and yet another soldier hand-filled it with raisins.
Dressed in the civilian clothes Claude had provided, Jeremy and Nicolas went unnoticed as they made their way through the crowds. Unshaven for days and with unkempt hair, both men passed for refugees seeking sanctuary. Nicolas had brought money, and soon he purchased bread and meat sufficient to assuage their gnawing hunger.
Jeremy noted that Nicolas had a passing familiarity with Saint-Nazaire. After short conversations with fellow citizens, Nicolas determined how to reach a destination he had not divulged, and he led through narrow cobblestone streets.
They reached a stone dwelling overlooking the estuary near the port. Fortunately, it was on a backstreet without commerce, warehouses, or activity that would attract the soldiers, and so it appeared empty when they approached it. Nevertheless, Nicolas instructed Jeremy to wait in the shadows cast by a tree growing close to a wall while he crossed the road, mounted some stairs, and knocked on a heavy wooden door.
A few minutes went by, and then Nicolas reappeared and beckoned to Jeremy. With a sense of relief, Jeremy left his hiding place and sauntered across the road. Inside the apartment, Nicolas introduced him to Jacques, a serious-faced young man a few years older than himself. He had a stocky build, a deep tan, and dark hair. His eyes sank under bushy eyebrows over a straight nose, and he wore a heavy mustache.
“Another cousin?” Jeremy inquired, half-smiling.
“The less we know about each other, the better,” Jacques cut in. “Within days, the Germans will be here, inside Saint-Nazaire. I can’t afford to know anything about you or for you to know anything about
