Purple Hearts. Майкл Грант
Ten minutes in which Marie and Rainy must mimic an innocent pair of young Frenchwomen who have stopped for a quick lunch. Two women who are aware of the Germans, but not overly aware.
Suddenly Mangled Ear pushes back from the table, wobbles a bit to the hooting enjoyment of his compatriots, demands to know where the toilet is, and lurches right into Rainy and Marie’s table.
Rainy glances at Marie and sees fear in her eyes.
“Pardonnez moi,” the German says in barely-decipherable French.
“Pas de quoi,” Marie says in a whisper. She looks down at her plate.
“Untersturmführer Fritz Weiss, a votre service, mesdemoiselles. Zwei, er, deux jolies mademoiselles. Pourquoi toute seul? ”
It’s mostly French, not grammatical, but comprehensible. He’s asking why two pretty young women are there alone.
Marie offers their cover story. They are traveling to a wedding, the madame’s wedding, in fact, in the company of Marie’s brother, Étienne, who will be back at any moment.
At this the German grabs a chair, pulls it close and sits down with them. “You don’t mind? More wine here! The ladies are parched!” He leers openly at Marie’s chest and she pulls back. Then he turns shrewd eyes on Rainy and asks, “Where are you from?”
“Fouras,” she lies in a hoarse whisper she hopes will disguise her accent.
The Walther is hard against her back. A suicide pill is sewn into the collar of her dress. She can feel the knife strapped to her leg.
The German waves that off. “I mean your family. You’re not French.”
Rainy offers a baffled smile. Marie steps in and says of course she is French, they are cousins.
The German tilts his head to the side. Then he reaches over, takes Rainy’s chin and turns her face sideways in profile.
“No Frenchie ever had a nose like that,” he says, and now the other two Germans are quiet and attentive, sensing their companion is up to something.
Rainy allows the hand, then, with disdain, pushes it away.
“I know a Jew when I see one,” the Untersturmführer says, his voice silky but slurred with drink.
Rainy puts on a baffled look.
The German rests both his elbows on the table and leans close, his breath stinking of red wine and cigarettes. “I’ve seen many a Jew,” he says, watching Rainy closely. “I know the look of a Jew. I know the smell of a Jew.” He has a sudden idea. “Patron! Bring us ham!”
“Ham, monsieur?”
“Something pork. Ham. Bacon. A snout, a trotter, it doesn’t matter.”
As they wait, the air is so tense it vibrates. A small slice of ham appears on a plate. The German tears open a piece of the baguette and carefully folds the ham into it, making a sandwich.
“Eat it, Jew.”
Rainy picks up the ham sandwich and takes a bite.
Jewish, but not kosher, you stupid Nazi asshole.
Rainy smiles and renders her hoarse whisper again. “Merci.” Thank you. And proceeds to eat the rest of the sandwich.
The other two Germans now erupt in guffaws, yelling good-natured taunts to their fellow, who smiles and nods a sort of apology to Rainy. He gets up unsteadily and heads for the back door, toward the toilet.
At that moment, Étienne comes rushing in the front door and in an agitated voice says, “We must go!” and only then spots the Germans.
Étienne freezes. The Untersturmführer with the mangled ear stops. Marie’s eyes go wide. And from outside on the street comes the shrill sound of a furious Frenchwoman shouting, “Liar! Bastard!”
It all looks like a domestic row of some sort and the Germans are grinning again in anticipation. Until the woman bursts in through the door, still yelling curses at Étienne and then turns to the Germans and says, “Il est maquis, lui, ce bâtard! ”
He’s maquis, the bastard.
There is a frozen moment when the entire scene is an oil painting. Two Germans are seated. One German is turning back toward them. Étienne is blushing, already embarrassed and now appalled. Marie stares at her brother, her expression torn between rage and fear.
Rainy does the math.
Three Germans.
Truck down the street.
A long way still to go.
And then: no choice.
She pulls the Walther from her back, points it at the two seated Germans, BANG! shoots the one on the left, then BANG! the one on the right. Mangled ear is caught off-guard, but after a split second’s hesitation, rushes at Rainy. She fires.
Jammed!
Marie pushes the German and he stumbles, but in the wrong direction: toward the stacked submachine guns.
Rainy is up, knocking the table over. She slams the Walther down on the German’s head, hitting him on the crown of his head, stunning but not killing him. He staggers to one knee. The cutlery and glasses and bottles have all fallen to the floor. She dives for a broken water glass, cutting her own palm, seizing the glass by its base and plunging a pointed shard into the German’s neck.
But his collar-board turns the glass shard aside, and now, drunk or not, the German’s training kicks in. He twists and drives a fist into Rainy’s belly, doubling her over. The glass drops from her hand.
The German is bigger, stronger and more experienced at hand-to-hand combat. Rainy knows she will lose if she doesn’t end this quickly. But how? With what?
But then a knife appears, one of the fallen steak knives. Rainy dives. The German dives atop her, hands scrabbling to grab hers. Rainy stabs the knife at his side, but the blade is too weak to penetrate his uniform and the tip breaks off. He shifts his grip, wrapping big hands around her neck. She stabs the broken blade into his neck, not a fatal cut, but enough to cause him to rear back, roaring curses.
Rainy kicks wildly, rolls away, uses a table to pull herself up, grabs a chair and slams it against him, like something out of a western barroom brawl. It does not break, rather it bounces away, having done no real damage.
Rainy grabs a wine bottle from the German’s table and smashes it against his shoulder, meaning to go for his head. He kicks, hitting her shin. She swings again and this time catches the German on the bridge of his nose. Blood gushes, filling his mouth and spilling out.
He is stunned but still dangerous. Rainy takes her time with the next blow, bringing the bottle hard against his temple. He drops to his knees and Rainy pushes him onto his back, straddles him, fights past his flailing hands, finds the handle of the knife and begins sawing the short blade back and forth across his throat. Like she’s trying to slice a tough roast.
The last of the cheap blade snaps off and she tosses the hilt across the room.
The German is bleeding profusely from several wounds, but he is not dead. He crawls across the floor now, trying to reach his Schmeisser, but his way is blocked by one of his companions, lying on his side and trying to get at the hole Rainy’s bullet left in his chest.
Rainy smashes the bottle against the back of Mangled Ear’s head, and this time it breaks, leaving the mouth of the bottle intact, and with a single long, pointed shard of heavy green glass.
Rainy straddles the German from behind, awkward in her bulky black dress, and stabs the shard into his jugular, then twists it back and forth, cutting deeper and deeper as warm blood flows over her hand.
She feels the way his muscles no longer seem to be acting under conscious control. Still she saws and digs and twists until