Through War & Adversity - Chapter 3 - Part II

The man’s index finger curled gingerly around the trigger and tugged on it once.  There was a thwap and he drew back.  The look on her face was of surprise.  Her jaw fell slack, she had opened her mouth to scream and the significance of it was lost when the gunshot spoke its final farewell.  Krause watched the scene, a wide smear of blood appeared from underneath the linen and covered the bedspread.  It stretched out across the bed, dripping over the side.  He imagined the droplets sinking through the mattress and raining down on the floorboards.   The pool swam across and over to her husband’s side of the bed.  How warm it was, he thought, how sticky would it feel on his skin, at what point would it wake him up? A moment later, the man’s eyes sprang open to investigate.

He screamed, called out for help.  He threw himself out of bed, tears in his eyes and rushed to the Gestapo officer standing over his wife’s corpse on her side of the bed.  He heard footfalls on the stairs, the murderer turned to face the door.  He thought, for a moment, that he’d been saved. 

The door opened.  Half a dozen Germans swarmed into the room.  Their bootheels rattling on the floorboards, their leather coats concealing MP40 submachine guns.  They dragged him out into the corridor, pulling what Krause thought to be a Tea-cosy over his head.   There were muffled screams and stifled laughter.  A series of thuds as the fat bastard bounced down the stairs.  He imagined the bruises his body would register and was delighted. 

Krause returned to Madeleine, perched himself on the end of the bed and looked deeply into her eyes.  He imagined her as a very beautiful, very intelligent woman.  Her bloodstain had spread into a perfect circle and he toyed with the idea of moving her into the middle of the bed.  His OCD, with the circle on the edge rather than the centre, wouldn’t allow for him to break the symmetry and slowly, and quite carefully, he drew the sheet over Madeleine’s face and joined them outside.

‘Adieu,’ he said to himself as he descended the steps.  The steps were really quite steep come to think of it.

 The disturbance Marc d’Erlanger had made had caused quite a commotion outside.  Some people had come out into the street, a young woman, barely into her twenties, had lashed out at one of the German soldiers.  He’d replied with a right hook and left her on the floor spitting teeth.  When Krause walked out, the residents jeered at him.

‘Please return to your homes,’ he called out in an authoritative tone.  If anything, it made them worse.  He felt like he was being surrounded.  He unscrewed the silencer from the Walther and fired two rounds into the empty air.  They backed off a bit but didn’t run.  A few of them did the wise thing and returned in the direction of their homes, most of the locals stayed behind.

Krause saw a stern-faced little boy among them, rooted to the spot, he liked him.  What a tough little boy.  Krause liked him immediately.  The eyes were focussed on him, full of hate and understanding of what was likely to happen to them, but he refused to budge.  Krause walked over to his soldiers.  Two of them held d’Erlanger up by the arms, he was sobbing profusely beneath the hood.  He tore it off and zeroed in on his face.  ‘Tell them to go before I start shooting them,’ he whispered.

The Frenchman did as he was told.  He pleaded with them: go back to your homes, go back to your families and forget what you saw here tonight.  

The crowd dispersed, and Krause smiled at the steadfast little boy.  He couldn’t have been much older than eight-years-old.  Looking at him again, he dug out his dagger and drove it up into the man’s throat. 

On the stab, he angled the blade up towards d’Erlanger’s brain.  He left it in there for a moment and turned back to the boy.  He still didn’t budge.  Blood sprayed out from a gap in the incision.  Krause returned the boy.  He was still there so he shrugged playfully and tore it out.  The soldiers threw the hood back over his face and dropped him to the floor and left him to bleed out in the road.   

Krause crossed back over to the boy, his bootheels echoing in the silence of the road and knelt.  Others watched him from their windows, but he wasn’t conscious of them.  He flipped the blade around and presented him with the handle.  He didn’t wipe it with a handkerchief.  The boy took the weapon in his hands and stared at him. 

Ruffling his hair and tugging his cheek, he laughed and said something affectionate in German.  He got to his feet and turned on his heel and marched over to a parked Mercedes, getting inside.  The driver turned the key into the ignition, the engine ticked over and it sped off.  

The driver looked concerned for the boy.  In the back, he saw the woman’s mouth fall open again and again, dear Madeleine.  He nursed a flask of French brandy like a small child.