The World at Night - by Alan Furst

 

Dawn. The sky pale, swept with the wisps of white scud that marked the high wind blowing in from the Channel.

The road to the fort on the heights of Sedan worked its way around the edges of the city, then climbed past plowed fields and old forest. At the gate to the fort, the Peugeot was waved through but Casson was stopped. The sentries were drunk and unshaven. “What brings you here?” one of them said.

“We’re making movies.”

“Movies! You know Hedy Lamarr?”

“Dog dick,” said another. “Not those kinds of movies. War movies.”

“Oh. Then what the hell are you doing up here?”

The second man shook his head, walked over to the truck and offered Casson a bottle through the window. “Don’t let him get to you,” he said. “Have some of this.”

Casson raised the bottle to his lips and drank. Sharp and sour. The man laughed as he took the bottle back. “Come and see us, squire, after this shit’s done with.”

The hard Parisian sneer in the voice made Casson smile. “I will.”

“You can find us up in Belleville, at The Pig’s Ass.”

“See you then,” Casson said, shoving the clutch in.

“Red front!” they called after him.

Fortress at Sedan!

Raising and saluting the flag, morning reveille played on a bugle. Domestic life in the barracks—washing clothes, shining boots. Here are the cooks, preparing breakfast for the hungry poilus. A cannon, the famous French 75, is aimed out over the Meuse valley. A vigilant sentry keeps watch with binoculars—no Germans yet, but we’re ready for them when they come.

Captain Degrave had an old friend serving with an artillery regiment and the gunners fed them breakfast. Casson ached from the driving, he was filthy with oily soot, and he wanted to shave more than anything else in the world, but the food seemed to bring him back to life. The gunners were countrymen from the Limousin. They’d stewed some hens in a huge iron kettle, added spring onions and wild garlic from the pastures outside the fort, found the last of the winter carrots in an “abandoned” root cellar, added Tunisian wine, a lump of fat, and a fistful of salt, then served it smoking hot in a metal soup plate. Afterward he sat back against a stone wall and had a hand-rolled cigarette stuffed with pipe tobacco. Maybe the world wasn’t as bad as it seemed.

It was strange, he thought, to be suddenly pulled from one life and dropped down into another. In Paris it was a May morning, Marie-Claire and Bruno probably making love by the open window that looked out over the Bois de Boulogne. She was, he recalled, at best obliging about it, she really didn’t like to do it in the morning; she had to be courted. And then—a little Marie-Claire punishment—she wouldn’t take off her nightgown. She’d pull it up to her chin, then stick her tongue out, saying that if you insisted on making love like a peasant, well then by God you could just make love like a peasant. That was, at least, how she started out. As always with Marie-Claire, things got better later.

Of course it might be different with Bruno, but he doubted it. My God, he thought, it’s like another world. Another planet. The lawyers, Arnaud and Langlade, would be going off to their offices in an hour or so, smelling like cologne, their ties pulled up just right, flirting with the women they passed in the street.

Casson stood, looked out over the wall at the early sun just lighting up the Meuse, burning off the valley mist. Bibi Lachette would still be asleep, he thought. She seemed like the type who slept late, dead to the world. Would she do it in the morning? Mmm—no, not it—but something. Generous, Bibi. He certainly did like her. Not love exactly, it was more like they were two of a kind, and, he thought, in some parts of the world that might be even better than love.

From the heights the river didn’t look like much of a barrier, it was too pretty. Placid blue water that ran in gentle curves, you’d do better to paint it than to try and fight behind it. What had one of the gunners called it? Just a little pipi du chat—a cat pee. Christ, he thought, what the hell am I doing in a war?

Sunset. They’d filmed the commanding officer reviewing a company of infantry, backs stiff, thumbs on the seams of their trouser legs. Then Degrave had asked him to take the film over to the regimental headquarters building where the courier from Paris was due at seven to pick it up.

The road was made of cut stone and ran along a parade ground lined with cannon from Napoleon’s time. He slowed down when a siren sounded, hoarse and broken, and heard a drone somewhere above him. The last of the orange sun was in his face—he let the truck roll to a stop, shaded his eyes, stared up into the early evening light.

A plane popped out of a cloud, abruptly slid sideways—Casson saw a black Maltese cross as the wing lifted—then dove at a sharp angle. For a moment he was a spectator, fascinated by the theatre of it, clearly it had nothing to do with him. Then the edges of the wings twinkled and the whine of the engine became a scream, rising over the rattle of the plane’s machine guns. Casson jumped out of the truck and ran for his life. Stukas, he thought. Like the newsreels from Poland.

At the bottom of its dive, the Stuka released a bomb. Casson’s ears rang, a puff of warm air touched his cheek, he saw, a moment later, black smoke tumbling upward, lazy and heavy. Just ahead of him, from the roof of the headquarters building, a spray of orange sparks seemed to float into the sky amid the drumming of antiaircraft cannon. Then more Stukas, whine after whine as they dove. Casson reached the building, fought through the shrubbery, then rolled until he got himself wedged between the ground and the base of a brick wall.

He looked up, saw a Stuka turn on its back, then slide into a shallow dive, rotating very slowly as it headed for the earth, a thin line of brown smoke streaming from its engine. Then a second Stuka exploded, a ball of yellow fire, flaming shards spinning through the air. Casson’s heart was pounding. Thick smoke stood slow and ponderous above the fort and the wind reeked of gasoline. The fuel tanks, he realized, that was what they’d come for, gray domes that stood three stories high—the smell of burning petroleum was making him dizzy. The drone of the airplanes faded into the distance, heading north into Belgium.

They moved to a little village outside the city of Sedan, the vehicles parked in a farmyard. Meneval slept in the car, Degrave and Casson stayed awake, sitting on the running board of the truck. A mile to the west, the fort was still burning, but directly above them the night was starry and clear.

Degrave had a heavy, dark face, dark hair, thinning in front—he was perhaps a little old to be a captain—and there was something melancholy and stubborn in his character.

“We’ll film in the blockhouse tomorrow,” he said. “Down near the river. Then we’ll move on someplace else—the fort can’t hold much longer.”

Casson stared, not understanding.

“We’ve lost the air force,” Degrave explained. “It’s gone—eighty percent of it destroyed on the first morning of the war.”

After a moment Casson said, “Then, they’ll cross the border.”

Degrave was patient. “The war is over, Corporal,” he said gently.

Casson shook his head, “No,” he said, “I can’t accept that.”

Degrave reached inside his coat and produced a crumpled, flattened packet of Gauloises Bleu. Two remained, bent and ragged. Degrave offered the packet, Casson pulled one free with difficulty. Degrave had a special lighter, made from a bullet cartridge, that worked in the wind. After several snaps they got both cigarettes lit.

“We’re going to lose?” Casson said.

“Yes.”

“What will happen?”

Degrave stared at him a moment, then shrugged. How could he know that? How could anybody?

3:30 A.M.

The blockhouse was long and narrow, built into the hillside, and very hot and damp. It smelled like wet cement. A squad of gunners lay on the dirt floor and tried to sleep, staring curiously at Casson and the others when they arrived. There were four embrasures, narrow firing slits cut horizontally into the wall. Meneval set up his camera at the far end of the blockhouse, wound the crank and inserted a new roll of film. The sergeant in charge handed Casson a pair of binoculars and said, “Have a look.”

Casson stared out at the river.

“They tried twice, yesterday. A little way east of here. But they weren’t serious. It was just to see what we did.”

A field telephone rang and the sergeant went to answer it. “Fifteen seventy-two,” he said, a map reference. “It’s quiet. We’ve got the moviemakers with us.” He listened a moment, then laughed. “If she shows up here I’ll let you know.”

A three-quarter moon. Casson made a slow sweep of the far bank of the Meuse, woods and a meadow in brilliant ashen light. He could hear crickets and frogs, the distant rumble of artillery. Thunder on a summer night, he thought. When it’s going to storm but it never does.

Degrave was standing next to him, with his own binoculars. “Do you know François Chambery?” he asked.

“I don’t think so.”

“My cousin. He’s also in entertainment—a pianist.”

“He performs in Paris?”

“He tries.”

Casson waited but that was all. “Where are you from, Captain?”

“The Anjou.”

Casson moved the binoculars across the trees. The leaves rustled, nothing else moved. In the foreground, the river seemed phosphorescent in the moonlight. To the west, the artillery duel intensified. It wasn’t thunder anymore, it sounded angry and violent, the detonations sharp amid the echoes rolling off the hillsides. “They’re working now,” somebody said in the darkness.

As Casson swept his binoculars across the forest, something moved. He tightened the focus until he could see tree trunks and leafy branches. Suddenly, a deer leaped from the edge of the woods, followed by another, then several more. They were colorless in the moonlight, bounding down the meadow to the bank of the river, then veering away into a grove of birch trees.

“What is it?” the sergeant said.

“Deer. Something chased them out of the woods.”

4:10

The moon fading, the light turning toward dawn shadow. Casson was tired, ran a hand across his face. In the woods, a heavy engine came to life. It sounded like a tractor on a construction site—plenty of gas fed into it on a chilly morning. Then, others. Behind Casson the soldiers grumbled and got to their feet. There were three Hotchkiss guns aimed out the embrasures. The crews got busy, working bolts, snapping clips into the magazines. Casson could smell the gun oil.

One of the tanks broke cover, just the front end of the deck and the snout of the cannon. “Leave him alone,” the sergeant said.

The French guns stayed silent. Meneval ran off a few seconds of film—they wouldn’t get much, Casson thought, not for another hour. The blockhouse was quiet, Casson could hear the men breathing. The tank reversed, disappeared into the forest. Was it over, Casson wondered. The soldier next to him, gripping the handles of a machine gun, said under his breath, “And . . . now.”

It was a close guess—only a few seconds off. A whistle blew, the Germans came out of the forest. The German tanks fired—orange flashes in the trees—and French antitank cannon fired back from the other blockhouses. The German infantry yelled and cheered, hundreds of them, running down the meadow carrying rubber boats and paddles. Clearly it was something they’d drilled at endlessly—it was synchronized, rehearsed. It reminded Casson of the news footage of gymnastic youth; throwing balls in the air or waving ribbons in time to music. Casson could hear the officers shouting, encouraging the soldiers. Some of the men reached the bank of the river and held the boats so their comrades could climb in.

The Hotchkiss guns opened up, tracer sailing away into the far bank and the troops boarding the rafts. German machine guns answered— fiery red tracer that seemed slow at first, then fast. Some of it came through the slits, fizzing and hissing in the blockhouse with the smell of burnt steel. The French gunners worked hard, slamming the short clips into the guns and ripping them out when they were done. On the far bank of the river, some soldiers bowed, others sat down, rolling on the ground or curling up.

Then it stopped. A few rubber boats turned in the current as they floated away, a few gray shapes floated along with them. The silence seemed strange and heavy. Casson let the binoculars hang on their strap and leaned against the lip of the gunport. Just outside, he heard twigs snapping and pounding footsteps on the dirt path. Two French soldiers ran past, then three more. The sergeant swore and hurried outside. Casson heard his voice. “Stop,” he called out. “You cannot do this—go back where you belong.”

The answering voice was cold. “Get out of the way,” it said.

At dusk, a message on the field telephone: the unit had been ordered out. Degrave’s allies in Paris, Casson suspected, knew the battlefield situation for what it was and had determined to save a friend’s life. “We’re being sent south,” Degrave explained as they packed up the equipment. “To the reserve divisions behind the Maginot Line.”

They tried. But in the darkness on the roads leading out of Sedan nobody was going anywhere. Thousands of French troops had deserted, their weapons thrown away. They trudged south, eyes down, among columns of refugees, most of them on foot, some pushing baby carriages piled high with suitcases. Casson saw artillery wagons—the cannon thrown off, soldiers riding in their place—pulled by farm horses; an oxcart carrying a harp, a hearse from Mons, a city bus from Dinant, the fire truck from Namur. Sometimes an army command car forced its way through, packed with senior officers, faces rigid, sitting at attention while the driver pounded on the horn and swore. Let us through, we’re important people, retreating in an important fashion. Or, as a soldier riding on Casson’s running board put it, “Make way, make way, it’s the fucking king.” Then, a little later, as though to himself, he said “Poor France.”

Casson and the others moved slowly south, at walking speed. Back on the Meuse, the Wehrmacht was attacking again and whatever remained of the Forty-fifth Division was fighting back—floods of orange tracer crisscrossed the night sky above the river.

It was hard work, coaxing the truck forward among the refugees. They slept for an hour, then started up again. In first light, just after dawn, Casson spotted a road marker and realized they’d traveled less than twenty miles from Sedan. And then, prompt to the minute at 7:00 A.M., the Stukas came to work. They were very diligent, thorough and efficient, taking care to visit each military vehicle. Casson ran for the ditch and up went the truck—gasoline, cameras, film stock, canned lentils. He sat in the dirt and watched it burn, caught up in a fury that amazed him. It made no sense at all—they’d stopped him from making idiotic newsreels that nobody would ever see—but something inside him didn’t like it.

But, whether he liked it or not, that was the end of the Section Cinématographique of the Forty-fifth Division, decommissioned in a cow pasture near the village of Bouvellement on a fine May morning in 1940. The Peugeot had also been a victim of the Stukas, though it had not burned dramatically like the truck. A heavy-caliber bullet had punched through the engine, which could do no more than cough and dribble oil when Degrave tried the ignition. “Well,” he said with a sigh, “that’s that.”

He then gave Meneval and Casson permission to go, filling out official little slips of paper that said they’d been granted emergency leave. For himself, he would make his way to the military airfield at Vouziers, not all that far away, and request reassignment.

Meneval said he would leave immediately for home, just outside Paris. His family needed him, especially his wife, who’d been absolutely certain that he was gone forever.

“You understand,” Degrave said, “that the fighting is going in that direction.”

“Yes, probably it’s not for the best,” Meneval said gloomily. “But, even so.” He shook hands and said good-bye and headed for the road.

Degrave turned to Casson. “And you, Corporal?”

“I’m not sure,” Casson said.

“What I would recommend,” Degrave said, “is that you make your way to Mâcon. There’s a small army base north of the city—it’s the Tenth Division of the XIV Corps. Ask for Captain Leduc, mention my name, tell him you are an isolée— a soldier separated from his unit. They’ll give you something to eat and a place to sleep, and you’ll be out of the way of, of whatever’s going to happen next.”

He paused a moment. “If the Germans ask, Corporal, it might be better not to mention that you were recalled to service. Or what you did. Other than that, I want to thank you, and to wish you luck.”

Casson saluted. Degrave returned the salute. Then they shook hands. “We did the best we could,” Degrave said.

“Yes,” Casson said. “Good luck, Captain.”

Casson headed for Mâcon. Sometimes, in a café, he heard the news on a radio. Nothing, he realized, could save them from losing the war. He left the roads, walked across the springtime fields. He ate bread he found in a bombed bakery in Châlons, tins of sardines a kind woman gave him in Chaumont. He was not always alone. He walked with peasant boys who’d run away from their units. He shared a campfire with an old man with a white beard, a sculptor, he said, from Brittany somewhere, who walked with a stick, and got drunk on some bright yellow stuff he drank from a square bottle, then sang a song about Natalie from Nantes.

As Casson watched, the country died. He saw a granary looted, a farmhouse burned by men in a truck, a crowd of prisoners in gray behind barbed wire. “We’ll all live deep down, now,” the sculptor said, throwing a stick of wood on the fire. “Twenty ways to prepare a crayfish. Or, you know, chess. Sanskrit poetry. It will hurt like hell, sonny, you’ll see.”

The villages were quiet, south of Dijon. The spaniel slept in the midday heat, the men were in the cafés at dusk, the breeze was soft in the faded light that led to evening, and the moon rose as it always had.

 

 

THE ADE PAGODA

20 August, 1940.

The silence of the empty apartment rang in his ears. The bed had been made—the concierge’s sister coming in to clean as she always did—and the only sign of his long absence was a dead fern. Still, he felt like a ghost returning to a former life. And he had to put the fern outside the door so he wouldn’t see it.

The heat was almost liquid. He opened the doors to the little balcony but it wasn’t all that much better outside. Hot, and wet. And still—as though all the people had gone away. Which they had, he realized. Either fled before the advancing Wehrmacht in June, or fled to the seashore on the first of August. Or both. Practical people on the rue Chardin.

He sat on the edge of the bed, took a deep breath, let it out slowly. The man who had lived here, the producer Jean Casson, Jean-Claude to his friends, little jokes, small favors, a half-smile, maybe we should make love—what had become of him? The last attempt at communication was propped against the base of a lamp on the bedside table. A message written in eyebrow pencil on the inside cover of a matchbook from the bar at the Plaza-Athenée. 34 56 08 it said, a phone number. Signed Bibi.

He’d spent a long time walking the roads, a long span of empty days in the barracks of a defeated army, and he’d thought, every day, about what had happened up on the Meuse. The machine-gun duels across the river, the French soldiers running away, the refugees on the roads. It seemed strange to him now, remote, an experience that happened to somebody else, in some other country.

He shaved, smelled the lotion he used to wear, then put the cap back on the bottle. Went for a walk. Rue des Vignes. Rue Raffet. Paris as it always was—smelly in the heat, deserted in August. He came to the Seine and rested his elbows on the stone wall and stared down into the river—Parisians cured themselves of all sorts of maladies this way. The water was low, the leaves on the poplars parched and pale. Here came a German officer. A plain, stiff man in his mid-thirties, his Wehrmacht belt buckle said Gott Mit Uns, God is with us. Strange God if he is, Casson thought.

The Métro. Five sous. Line One. Châtelet stop, Samaritaine department store, closed and dead on a Sunday. He would survive this, he thought. They all would, the country would. “Peace with honor,” Pétain had called the surrender. Peace with peace, at any rate, and not to be despised. Just another débâcle, the lost war. And French life had plenty of those. There goes the electricity, the Christmas dinner, the love of one’s life. Merde.

In the back streets of a deserted commercial district he found a little café open and ordered an express. The price had doubled, the coffee was thin, and the proprietor raised a cautionary eyebrow as he put the cup down—this is how things are, I don’t want to hear about it. Casson didn’t complain. He was lucky to be alive, paying double for a bad coffee was a privilege.

On the flight south from Sedan he’d been lucky twice. The first time, he was with a company of French infantry, half of them still armed, when they were overtaken by a German column. An officer stood on a tank turret, announced the Panzerkorps had no time to deal with prisoners, and directed them to lay their weapons down on the road. When that was done a tank ran over them a few times and the column went on its way. Others had not been so fortunate—they’d heard about whole divisions packed into boxcars and shipped off to camps in Germany.

The second time, Casson was alone. Came around the curve of a road outside Châlons to find three Wehrmacht officers on horseback. They stared at him as he walked past—a lone, unarmed soldier in a shabby uniform. Then he heard a laugh, glanced up to see a young man with the look of a mischievous elf, or perhaps, if some small thing annoyed him, a murderous elf. “You halt,” he said. He let Casson stand there a moment, then leaned over, worked his mouth, and spit in his face. His friends found that hilarious. Casson walked away, head down, and waited until he was out of sight before wiping the saliva off.

So what? he told himself. It didn’t mean anything.

A woman came into the café and caught his eye. She was tall, had a big, soft face, net stockings, short skirt. Casson stood and gestured at an empty chair. “A coffee?” he said.

“Sure, why not.”

The proprietor brought it over and Casson paid.

“Been out in the country?” she said.

“You can tell?”

She nodded. “You have the look. Too many healthy Frenchmen around, all of a sudden.” She took a sip of coffee and scowled at the proprietor but he was busy not noticing her. She snapped her purse open, took out a small mirror, poked at a beauty mark pasted on her cheek. “Care for a fuck?” she said.

“No, thanks.”

She closed the mirror and put it back in her purse. “Something complicated, it’ll cost you.”

“What if I just buy you a sandwich?”

She shrugged. “If you like, but I hate to see this louse have the business.”

Casson nodded agreement.

“Oh, it’s going to get real shitty here,” she sighed. “Before, I was just about managing. Day to day, you know. But now . . .”

Casson took out a packet of cigarettes and they both lit up. The woman blew a long plume of smoke at the café ceiling. “Trick is,” she said, “with these times, is don’t let it ruin your life.”

“My mother used to say that.”

“She was right.”

They smoked. A fat little man, commercial traveler from the suitcase he was carrying, looked into the café and cleared his throat. The woman turned around. “Well hello,” she said.

“Are you, uh . . .”

The woman stood up. “I have to go,” she said.

“Luck to you.”

“Thanks. And you.”