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France:1943/A circus train aides The French Resistance/ who is the Limping Lady? |
| [Introduction] ATTENTION: campfire story tellers. This story evolved into a page turning, historic read. Slowing up on additions is okay: allows time for research. Suggest keywords: "French Resistance & Ahnenerbe" RULES OF ENGAGEMENT 1.FOLLOW PLOT AS PRESENTED by all writers entering this campfire. 2.IMPORTANT: Please start each section with a bold. {b close bracket. 3.Think of this as an ongoing serial. Goal: To stretch your imagination/ create major & minor characters. 4.Behaviorial Objective --- Use daring vocab, walk the walk, talk the talk for: Setting, action, purpose .. plot. 5.Time to dabble in accurate research is warranted. Which, leads to educating an audience. Fasten your seatbelts, folks ... we're in for a pretty wild ride. OKAY!!! INTERNET please stay tuned. Each author's work belongs solely to them. WELCOME, READERS. WELCOME AUTHORS!!! This is an activity ---> Brought to you by:"Invalid Item"  OPEN Posts RE: this campfire welcome @ "Invalid Item" YOU're all doing an super job here. It is a pleasure working with you. Thanks & Happy New Year from teffom@writing.com |
(same as intro, slight rewrite) Cookie Crenshaw, a gypsy by default, appears bemused by an invitation to "touch base" with current ringleader of the circus on the morning of Oct. 20. October air beckons as she steps from her quaint purple & gold caravan. Fixing campfire coffee, a brew as strong as a local construction worker, she plans her wardrobe for an upcoming encounter with another myopic circus boss. Wondering what this is all about, she cinches her strapless floor length gown, dons a multi-colored woolen shawl, pulls on tight ballerina slippers. Heading for the ringmaster's office, Cookie spies him sitting beside an open window with a makeshift board, where many interviews indubitably occur as seasons change. Crenshaw's path opens upon a clear day, crisp chilly air. A bevy of pompous white clouds reveal a cunning osprey soaring above the Big Top. Cookie heeds this as an omen for no reason whatsoever. She pulls her woolens closer, stopping to admire sunburst views courtesy of Autumn's glint. Hilltops portray rainbow foliage. Below in the distance lies .......... |
Below in the distance lies a large structure that looks like a gingerbread house built by five-year-old hands with no adult supervision. The roof tops jut at odd angles from each other and their mismatched shingles distort the shapes into one large mass. Even with her slight nearsightedness, Cookie can see ivy agressively covering the front of the house, that is a third stone, a third yellow clapboard and a third of what looks like splotched paint. The windows are tall and empty. "How ya doing Cooks," Bantram's perky voice makes her shudder and she sips her coffee to strengthen herself against his inquiry. "Bantram, dear, it's early." Cooking went back to her task of meeting the ringmaster. Bantram had seen her gaze at the house and picked up that possiblity. "Crazy old place ain't it." He stank to her of the animals he kept in the cars at the end of the train. Bantram's red hair was untamed and his coat soiled with animal matter. She stepped away, and kept her shawl as close to her shoulders as she could. "Indeed." More coffee. "I hear that the old town mill owner lived there, but disappeared a year ago and hasn't been heard from since. Some say he went crazy when he wife left him. Others say a deal went bad." Bantram's short legs brought the top of his head to Cookie's shoulders. He tilted his face toward her for approval of the information. He thought perhaps half of it was true. Cookie was dubious. Bantram probably had more than once kick to the head from a irked zebra. "I've got to get to the ringmaster." Cooking swept past him and he tipped his head to this regal dove. Ah, beautify in motion. "Ringmaster's in a mood," he threw into his wake. Cookie didn't turn to show that this fact did interest her. "Fine Bantram. That's just fine." The coffee bit the back of her throat as she sucked down the liquid and left the coarse grounds in the bottom of the mug. She creaked up the steps and reached for the knob to his door.... |
“Better knock,” Cookie thought, remembering Bantram’s warning that the Ringmaster was in a… mood. Taking her hand off the doorknob, Cookie rapped gently with her knuckles on a weathered wooden door. There was no answer. “I’m certain he saw me through the window coming towards his office,” Cookie thought. “Perhaps he didn’t hear my knocking?” She rapped on the door again putting a little extra strength into her effort. Cookie heard a loud “Enter!” coming from the interior of the room. She gently opened the door and was immediately hit by a blast of super heated air. She was accustomed to keeping her own quarters quite chilly. Not only was heat expensive and her budget limited but heat tended to give her rashes in sensitive areas. She knew she had to remove the woolen shawl as soon as the door behind her groaned to a sudden click. The heat was oppressive. “Had the Ringmaster turned it up intentionally?” Cookie thought, remembering the lurid stare he had given her a few days ago. “Does he want to see me undress in front of him? Everyone knows I can’t stand hot weather and he’s sure to know all about his employees by now. Word of mouth gets around fast. I’ll bet he saw me coming and turned the heat up high.” Cookie’s mind raced as she glanced towards the figure sitting behind a worn metal desk. Word had gotten around that the new Ringmaster was a real “Terminator.” It was said the first thing he did when moving into a new position was fire half a dozen or more employees. It was believed that he used this tactic to cut costs and impress the owners with his rapid assessment of the needs of the company. Money “was” the bottom line, after all! “Ah…Cookie,” the Ringmaster said, pointing to a seat in front of his desk. “Have a seat, we have some serious business to discuss…. |
People are all so different, Cookie thinks. Maybe she's too hard on Bantram. Cookie loves horses, loves to ride. He's been generous, letting her groom to her heart's content. "Do me a favor, Ringmaster. Say what the hell's your first name anyways? " Cookie flaunts a laced leg above the step of the last caravan, at the end of the line of the makeshift encampment. "Sorry, hotten hell in here for the likes of moi." "Mortimer." "MORTIMER!" "Mortimer Snodgrass. Yes, I happen to come from a very long line of Snodgrasses. Circus people, everyone of us. Well, except for Townson Snodgrass who is a very successful butcher, Mademoiselle Cookie." "Listen, Mortimer. Since you called me here to ask me what now?" The Ringmaster reaches down, shines his boots with a see-saw motion. He flicks a doe skin cloth out like a whip. "Okay, the short version. I'm hoping you'll tell my fortune for me? If you've a moment." When Mortimer Snodgrass, Ringmaster, tweaks ends of his handle bar mustache, Cookie Crenshaw laughs, jumps from a metal step. The caravan shakes. Taking in nearby mountains painted brilliant by red maples. Surprised by Ringmaster Mortimer Snodgrass leaning his jodhpurs out the door, arms swaying on the doorjamb, a few feet from Cookie's smirk. When she reads fortunes she may dress as an elderly crone, wear bifocals, gray wigs. By day enjoying nature, a camper at heart. Cookie steps backward, spins, her skirt flares. "Mort? Morty, in other words you want a freebee. I charge $20 for a private reading. $5 at the box. Let's do this ...." Cookie quips. Crenshaw's an upfront gal, whom speaks her mind. "Jasmine, our trapeze artist plans gathering a picnic hike in a few days. Maybe, then ... we'll see. Now I'm off to pet the horses." Reaching down she picks up a Snodgrass gnome, down for the count on the narrow path. Not, Cookie's fault, she's low tolerance for plastic elves ... nor cheapskates who allow a tad of authority to go to their heads. So what her dancing knocked down an elf made in China. The nerve of this guy. Free fortunes don't pay bills, put food on the table for Cookie and her cats. "I like to take, Bantram one of these." Cookie holds up a shiny red Winesap. "Bye." That ringmaster, Snodgrass watches his gypsy run off, thinking about Snow White, poison apples. He promises himself a cool draft of cider before the day is done. |
Mortimer watched from the frosty window as Cookie ambled down the hill towards the animal pens. “Gypsies,” he said to himself. “Hot blooded, cool headed, sly little devils. Where would the circus be without them?” Mortimer had not called Cookie in for a fortune telling session, that was a ruse. His sole purpose was to assess her personality to determine if she would fit the bill for a special project he had been assigned to do. “She’ll do fine,” he thought. “Money, after all, is the heart and soul of all Gypsies. They have no loyalty to any particular country only to other Gypsies.” Mortimer had been promised a lot of money to move his circus to a small town south of Paris named Orleans, pronounced Or-lee-ahns. Orleans was a hotbed for French upper crust and his employers needed information on which way they were leaning in the political sense. “As goes Orleans, so goes France,” the old saying went. They were the descendents of the old French nobility and still held considerable sway in telling the French peasants which political direction to follow. His point of contact in Orleans was a Monsieur Jean Claude d’ La Monton, known to be a womanizer and particularly interested in hot blooded Gypsie women. Monton had critical information that Mortimer’s employees needed in order to complete their plans for a successful invasion of France. However, Monton was being obstinate and demanded certain concessions from his employers before he would part with the crucial information. “Cookie will do fine,” Mortimer whispered, smiling and glancing again out the window. “She don’t know it but she’s my ticket to power and fortune.” |
| Cookie didn't believe Mortimer's ruse he wanted a reading. (Little did she know at the time he was conspiring with the Nazis.) She knew even from the insular cabin of his train car he had to realize he was insulting her with the request. She turned to glare at his car to weigh the options of the request. One, the request was a poor excuse to gauge if she'd date him. She snorted. That's a joke. Not possible. Cookie shook her mane of red hair, little bells in her hair wraps jingling in her ears, and ran her free hand, the other absently held onto the gnome, over her smooth face, softened with night cream and cucumber treatments. The field to Cookie's body, let alone her affections, were in a league far from where the paunchy, aging, mustached Mortimer played. She passed the little gnome from hand to hand. Her inner eye, that sense that made her unique in the trade of fortune tellers, she was right more than she wrong, saw that Mortimer was testing her response. He called her for an interview for a job for which she hadn't applied. In the year's she'd been on the road with the circus she had met all types of people searching for an answer and looking to her, to Cookie's visions, for the answers to their problems. In the few moments with a client, Cookie had developed a sense for those who searched for love or for money. There were the few who searched for ambition. Mortimer, from the way Cookie's silver fillings ached in the two back molars, was one of those where ambition and money collided. Now she needed to figure out what he was after and how she fit into the plan. Lulu, the matriarch of the Flying Marchinanos, the fine lady of the trapeze, breezed by with Cookie, flexing her angular jaw and muscular body. Petite, Lulu always made Cookie feel as the elephants must feel next to panther, plodding next to lithe. After Cookie predicted the death of Lulu's cousin (thanks to a faulty safety line), Lulu kept her distance even as she exuded the obvious difference in stature and expertise. Lulu was a trained professional and Cookie was just lucky in predictions. The weak safety line could have happened to anyone, Lulu reasoned. That horsey woman couldn't possible have known that was going to happen. "Is the gnome part of your routine?" Lulu asked in her Mediterranean lilt. "Or Just a new accessory for your tent?" "I don't do an act," Cookie replied briskly. "It was on the path and I didn't want Mortimer to take a sudden fall." "How thoughtful." Lulu paused. "I did not realize you had a soft spot for that SOB. Or did you have a vision?" Why waste time on a non-believer. "Lulu, I must get back to prepare for my sessions. Do you need something?" "Oh don't you know? We're leaving." The little woman's nose was as short as her overall height, and strangely pushed against her face. It made Lulu look up at everyone, even her equally-short husband. The tilt of her chin and arched brow gave her a sophisticated air, or a snobby one, depending on your point of view. Cookie did admire the limber body, taught under her purple tights and black tunic. Lulu's black hair was slicked away from her face with an ornate clip securing it on her head. Even with her disdain for Lulu, who could have kept another circus performer's alive, Cookie found Lulu beautiful. "No show in town tonight. I would think of everyone here, you would certainly have seen this turn of events." "I sense people, not turns of events. Excuse me." Lulu laughed. "Yes, off to some small town south of Paris named Orleans. I'm sure it'll be one of those places with one stop sight no big spenders." Lulu's voice trailed after Cookie as she quickly got to the door of her car. "Mortimer's got some business there." Cookie turned. Lulu had walked off without any other information. The interview and this move were clearly connected. Cookie didn't yet see how. She jerked open the aged knob to her trailer and hoped to get a sense of solid ground even as the circus roadies started the trains wavy motion to the next town, Orleans. |
| "Cookie, wake up!" Yelled her home buddy Agnes. Cookie dreams on an interview with the Ringmaster. She rolls up her sleeves, gets off from her angular bed. Pretending not to hear Agnes wake up call, she heads to the bathroom and fixes herself ungraciously. She hates the Ringmaster. "People love to fool around!" She thinks of it every time she had a dream. It's only Agnes her orphan friend understands her. Agnes comes from a far away village of beggars. |
| Cookie glances out the window of the train car at the beautiful rolling countryside. France was indeed a beautiful country, so charming, so provincial, so…French! She was enjoying a cup of hot refreshing tea. The engineer had been kind to her and allowed her to siphon off a small pot of hot water from the engine valve. Although the water had a bit of a metal taste to it, it was boiling hot but the strong tea she preferred hid the minute metal flavor. They had traveled all night on the Gare de’Nord, then switched over to the Gare de’Sud at the Australitz station just outside of Paris. God! It would have been wonderful to have stayed in Paris. Cookie loved that great city. They were nearing their destination of Orleans about ninety kilometers south of Paris. Cookie had never been to Orleans but had heard that it was a fairly good-sized place. Her knowledge of history told her that this was the home of Joan de’ Arc, the famous saint who became a warrior. It was located on the Loire River, a river famous for its great chateau’s, good white wine and excellent cheeses. Cookie loved cheese… any kind of cheese and she was looking forward to a fresh hot baguette filled with camembert or gruyere. Just the thought sent pangs of hunger racing through her. All she had had this morning was some stale biscuits and some left over pate, goose pate at that, which she didn’t particularly care for. It was unusual to have a compartment of her own but the train was at least half-empty. The growing rumors of another war with the Germans was keeping people close to home. She didn’t exactly have the compartment all to herself, her friend Agnes was supposed to share it with her. Agnes however, had decided to spend the night with her paramour, Marcele, one of the most successful clowns in the circus. Cookie didn’t particularly care for Marcele, he was arrogant, stuck up, and thought entirely too much of himself. Besides, he had often tried to get Cookie beneath the covers, or into the hay, or even on the table and she knew that was all he had to offer. Wham! Bam! Thank you mam! No, no thank you from Marcele. That would be too much caring on his part. The breaks started screeching and the cars began to do the bumpety bump, a sure sign that they were entering the station at Orleans. Cookie threw the dregs of her tea out the open window and stood up to start her putting her small wardrobe into her overused and slightly ragged valise. She had brought only what she needed for the night and the remainder of her belongings were still in her wagon loaded onto the cargo carriers of the train. She still hadn’t figured out why the Ringmaster had rented space on a train for the entire circus. It was very unusual. They normally plodded from place to place on the bumpy but well kept roads. “He must be in one God awful hurry to reach Orleans,” Cookie mused. |
| From the vantage point of her train car, Cookie surveyed the town of Orleans, 80 miles north of Paris, a modest city that was like much of Europe, a soaring Medieval fortress silently shadowing blocks of apartments built after the War. In Cookie's experience the train's tracks would run along the edges of the city, where the more tattered homes and factories created a depressed first impression of the approaching city. She finished packing her valise , slipping shut the dull buckle and pulled her purple wrap around her. Fall's early morning chill was dissolved as the sun pulled itself around the earth's horizon. Mornings were her best time to explore the inner life, that extra sense she had since birth. Others called these premonitions gut feelings, but Cookie felt she was a channel for something deeper, and more storied than a gut feeling. When Cookie could settle into the other world of past and future, totally remove herself from the present moment and hover in the space between time, that's when she could see the well of predictions fill up before her. Mortimer had brought her, had brought all of them to this French city for a reason. She held her hands out, closed her eyes, and breathed into the swell of the possibilities. Three cars up Mortimer also peered out the dirty train window to see if Orleans was as he remembered it. The rivers combining to shape a city under siege during the 1400s and later used by the Germans as a transportation base in their march to defeat the Allies. The history made the city beautiful, even to the cynical eye of Mortimer, who looked at each face, each corner, each place as an opportunity for him to gain fame, money, status. Of course, he had been young when he first came to Orleans, transfixed by young Daphne who was following the trail of Jeanne d'Arc for her graduate thesis. Mortimer, with only his charm and wits as his education, had provided to be a practical travel companion, and eventually lover, to Daphne, who's mind was firmly grounded not in the 1940's France, but in 1400 France, when France and England were at odds. He leaned back and thought of those days, when happiness did seem possible. Compared to know, happiness, love, Daphne's slight body leaned into his as they looked over the Loire on a spring day, her lips brushing against his. No, he wouldn't find her here now. He was here for a different purpose not to find a lost love. A love that he lost because he wouldn't give up on the quick path to fortunate, maybe even fame, and lost Daphne in the streets of Orleans. He had no time for these sentimental memories when he needed to be sharp. He could meet Andre at any moment. He hadn't come here to find Daphne, but to finish things with Andre. And he needed Cookie to find this recluse before the recluse found Mortimer. Edit: For 1970 to 1940 |
INTERMISSION: for this untitled work now edited to an actual setting date --- see below: 1943? Or: 194_ ... By changing 1970 to Thirties then the story to "Forties." CHARACTER LIST by order of appearance: Cookie Crenshaw: a gypsy by default Bantram: circus animal tender Mortimer Snodgrass, Ringmaster Previous lover: Daphne Orlean's contact: Monsieru Claude d' La Monton Mortimer searching for Andre Agnes --- orphan, travelling with the Circus Agnes's boyfriend: Marcell Lulu, Matriarch of the Flying Machinanos Jasmine Marchinanos, a trapeze artist START: CHAPTER TWO: THE TRAIN THEY CALL SALVATION TIME: Year: 194 _ --- WALKING hand in hand Cookie sets a fast pace. Dawn reveals teams of fleeing refugees moving along THE LOIRE RIVER. Cookie cries out to young Agnes to be weary of danger. German troops in the vicinity were known to take few prisoners. France, once proud, provocative and romantic sadly dwindles like a snuffed candle flame, currently occupied by Nazis soldiers. Daily, trains leave Paris, pass thru Orleans filled with human cargo. ===================== Jasmine and her mother, Madam Marchinanos prepare themselves to quickly board stragglers, escaping war torn France. Refugees, Jews and gypsies, priests, nuns ... and children creep toward safety of the circus's open train cars. The Marchinanos ready croisants and fresh vegetables into baskets to be secreted to hungry wayfarers whose very lives depend on the stalled circus train. ========================= Bantram lays prone atop the second boxcar. He's certain Ringmaster's made cumlaude arrangements with Germans stationed in Orleans, who expect a ribald circus to raise troop moral. ============================== Mortimer Snodgrass claps his contact, Claude La Monton on the shoulder. With great pleasure, ringmaster accepts not only the plight of the few hundred pitiful souls waiting in nearby fields along the tracks. Snodgrass also tweaks his villainous mustache at the large envelope, presented from Andre (a former nemesis) to La Monton. Will they be able to carry this one off? Hide refugees by day, perform circus rituals by night? He's bemused his band of circus extroverts hadn't seen this ruse coming. Paramount is non disclosure of the secret mission. ======================= Claude La Monton regales Mortimer Snodgrass a silent respect. If it weren't for this stalled train who knew how many more would be sent to concentration camps from French cities. ==================== Marcell lingers with Mademoiselle Daphne in a farmhouse kitchen wedged between the rushing, turbulent Loire and lines of stalled trains. Outside prevails an overburdened, dangerous atmosphere of railways transporting people to places from which they might never return. He's grateful, his brave Tante Daphne ignores her fears. In the final analysis they manage to provide passports, cards for so few. The quest for safety, an ongoing strain. Oh, how Andre & La Monton helped. And they truly owe Snodgrass who shall face German officers on his own terms at light-hearted circus shows to come. There's not a single neighbor in all of Orleans who wouldn't help the children. Oh for this evil war to end. Marcell relishes his contacts with Agnes. This very moment she's apt to explain the ruse to the circus carnies, whose whims and oddities she's memorized for months. ========================================= =================== Much major THANKS to all collabortors. Due to research and originality --- YOU are spanning & spinning this one toward excellence! |
“Welcome to Orleans,” said La Montone, raising his wineglass to the small group sitting around a private table in a comfortable inn just off Rue Jean D’Arc. Cookie raised her glass and glanced at the other members of the ‘planning’ committee. To her right sat Lulu, Matriarch of the Flying Machinanos, and next to Lulu sat Jasmine. Jasmine wasn’t normally part of the circus hierarchy but it was hard to separate her and Lulu. To Cookie’s left was Ringmaster Mortimer Snodgrass and directly across from Cookie stood La Montone. The only stranger to the table was a dapper man sitting between Monton and Snodgrass. Cookie had never seen the man before but his bearing indicated intelligence and possibly wealth… old wealth. “We are here to discuss what we can do for the brave men of the Third Reich,” Montone continued, casually glancing around the table. “I would like to introduce someone who has been picked by the Führer himself to assist us in our endeavors. May I introduce Herr Wolfram Sievers. Herr Sievers is the Reich Manager of the Ahnenerbe. Be careful what you say,’ Montone smiled jokingly, “he is also an SS Standartenführer.” Cookie was shocked to learn that the man was a German General Officer. He looked more like a man of title and spoke like a professor. What startled her more was that he was director of the Ahnenerbe, which was completely against everything the circus stood for. The Ahnenerbe was part of Himmler's greater plan for the systematic creation of a "Germanic" culture that would replace Christianity in the Greater Germany to exist after the war, a kind of SS-religion that would form the basis of the new world order. People like Cookie and her circus friends did not have a place in this new world order. She wondered why Montone had included this man in their planning session. “Thank you Herr Montone,” Sievers said, casting a generous smile around the table. “Orleans has been selected as an R&R, or Rest and Recuperation Center for officers returning from the front lines. After the rigors of battle and the day to day demands, officers need a break to take their minds off the horrors of war. Part of this Recuperation effort will be scheduled entertainment, music, lectures and of course quiet time. This is where your circus comes in. Although some men in higher circles do not particularly care for the- shall we say makeup- of the circus personnel running and working in circuses, the entertainment value far outweighs their arguments.” “Yeah!” Cookie thought. “We gypsies, tramps and thieves aren’t good enough to join Herr Hitler’s super race. First chance the Nazis get our necks will be on their chopping block.” Cookie already knew from word of mouth that Gypsies were high on the list for concentration camps along with the Jews, the mentally ill, political prisoners, and other undesirables.” “We have noted some irregularities among your circus personnel though,” Herr Sievers continued. “Your original contract noted that you had 311 personnel which included all your circus specialties, acts and support personnel. This latest contract lists a total of 580 personnel. How do you account for the sudden difference?” he asked Snodgrass. Mortimer knew that the we part of his statement meant that the Gestapo had connected the dots and had been screening the circus personnel for undesirables or refugees. Between his and Cookie’s efforts they could account for all the additions. Cookie had fabricated dozens of useless jobs and fictitious acts that the secret police would be hard to counter. “The Goons are closing in,” Cookie thought, thinking of all the refugee additions to the staff. She made a mental note to have Guiseppe work hard on the new acts so they wouldn’t look like the nonprofessionals they were. “Many of those are extra support staff and personnel who came here ahead of the circus to make arrangements, and others are local French acts we have incorporated into the circus,” Mortimer replied. “A complete listing of circus personnel has been provided to your officials.” “Can’t be too careful,’ Herr Sievers continued with a casual nod. “After all the gentlemen you will be entertaining are the cream of the Third Reich, Germany’s future. I have been advised that you are not Gypsy by birth,” he continued, nodding towards Cookie. “There was a notation of possible royal ancestry among the documents given to me, an Austrian connection?” “How the devil did they dig that up?” Cookie thought, caught off guard by the sudden statement. She knew many fortune tellers and circus acts that pretended to be Gypsies but was not. Gypsy life was romantic and Gypsies considered mysterious. That’s why they made such great mystics, real and or pretended. It was also her means of escape from boredom and unwanted marriage to a complete idiot. The circus was a great place to hide your past. She was from an aristocratic Austrian family but no one in the circus knew it. |
If that Cookie is an Austrian, she will have to choose if she sides with the Axis or with the Allies. Lulu grinned with glee. She knew that Cookie was a fake. Aristocrat. She stamped her foot down and broke the strained silence that had filled the room after Herr Sievers' revelation to Cookie, who's face did give everything away, her normal neutral, in Lulu's opinion haughty, expression melting into an open-mouth gape. Herr Wolfram Sievers thin lips curled up at end in an ironic smile. He looked only momentarily toward the sound of Lulu's foot. His gaze returned to Cookie who had closed her mouth and set her jaw against the cold man's calculated interview. "An aristocrat could only have one reason for traveling with a circus," his voice curdled with disdain. "You are hiding from someone, or something." Cookie gave a sideways glance at Mortimer who's hand still held the glass of wine. He pulled at his mustache and his eyes glistened. He wasn't going to provide her help. "So, Frau Christina, what is your story." Lulu was as cool and collected at Herr Sievers. Finally an explanation for Cookie's aloof behavior. Nothing to do with her "third eye." A knock at the door broke the silence and surprised even the collected Sievers. Mortimer stood up with a jerk. "Who knows about our meeting?" Sievers asked harshly. The door opened before Mortimer could reach it. Bantram stood in the doorway, his gray wool cap pulled down low over his broad forehead. "Mr. Mortimer, the French division of the comics has arrived for a review." The animal tender shifted nervously under Herr Sievers' glare. "I put them in the mess tent for now. It's gettin cold out here." Cookie willed Bantram to look at her. "And Madame C, there are several predictors who want to meet with you and gather the spirit for the show. I put them in your cabin." "Thank you Bantram." She stood with her purple robes flowing around her tall brown boots, the soles soft against the floorboards. "I must go. I assume I'll see you at another time Herr Sievers. You can come by my tent for a reading later, if you so wish." She bowed slightly and squeezed Bantram's arm as she squeezed through the door. Bantram's heart skipped a beat. He turned to follow her. "Just a moment you," barked Sievers. "Come here." Bantram turned back and shuffled his feet. "Sir." "I want to meet these predictors. Send them to me here when the Madame," he snarled the title, "has finished with them." Bantram looked to Mortimer who gave a short nod in affirmation. "Yes sir." Lulu stood now and grabbed her daughter's hand. "We must go too. Bantram," her accent thick in the empty space of the cabin, "I need you. Come too." The three people left together. The door slammed, the chill floating around the remaining men. Mortimer sipped his wine. "I guess we should all get to work if are to perform tomorrow for your men, Herr Sievers." He stood slowly and bowed his head as well. "We hope to give you a show you will not forget." "Mortimer. I am watching your ever move. I have others watching the moves of all the French performers. If we sense any business aiding the refugees, the who circus will be deported. The animals put down. We do not tolerate resistance to the Third Riech's goals." He finished his wine and put the glass down, and turned toward the door. "After you." Mortimer looked at Montone. "Please join me for supper." "I would be honored," Montone's thick face was tense. Mortimer strode through the door, followed by Sievers, who gave one last look at Montone who sat alone as the door shut again. Montone finished his wine as well and leaned back. The fear of discovery was more acute than ever. One mistake, and Herr Sievers would have them all off on the next train to one of the camps. There was so much at stake, and he had to trust that Mortimer's collection of circus workers were up to the task. He gathered his gray wool gloves and fixed his cap against the the chill of the Orlean's spring. |
"Invalid Entry" Title: THE LIMPING LADY For: "WWII/ GYPSY/CIRCUS/ORLEANS" Date: Tue, Dec 15, 2009, 8:20am Much thanks to Oldwarrior   for his original story turn re: the gestapo, SS Ahnenerbe. TEFF source: msn.com search for "French Resistance & Ahnenerbe" evident via the following summary. "When Heinrich Himmler instigated the formation of an organization, das Ahnenerbe to conduct anthropogenic studies around the world in 1931, treatment of German civilians and the demise of an unsuspecting European population was already at risk. Resulting archaeological travels by well know members from Germany's elite scientific community picked up the gauntlet the Third Reich threw at them. They left for far off places, such as Tibet, The Middle East, Sweden. In neutral Ireland, Gestapo members recorded significance they assumed lay in the Irish Harp as a way to contact the spirit world. The working parties, SS of Ahnenebre came to France, centering on pillaging ancient Cathedrals thought to possible be hiding the Holy Grail. When the French Resistance distributed an underground paper, Combat, not a man nor woman nor radio was not onto the ridiculous quest to harness arcane, occult or early Christian history to a superior race, which Germany sought to claim as ties to their ancestors: Norman, Saxon and Germanic conquerors world wide. In Orleans a few banded together to release a population from the co-operation of the Vichy government in Paris. Throughout tumultuous months a path is laid almost a year earlier to re-route the German war machine, resist Vichy collaboration with the Nazis and defy nazi occupation. The efforts of the quaint circus set up in Orleans to pre-empt quadrilles of German tanks set out to halt the Allied Invasion at Normandy on June 6. 1944 lies inside a tale which creates local heroism as early as 1943. Thinking ran, let the nazi fuhrer establish his archetypical travesty of our lands, while we will thwart the devils at every turn. Throughout the French Republic, stupendous, costly digs were undertaken to locate even the slightest whisper of a prayerful counterpart directing the nazis, who hands over fists strove to secure the Holy Grail. Accidents, burials of German troops, mountainside explosions and a cunning plot to sway the Ahnenerbe SS from destroying the living population of Orleans is a grave and courageous undertaking which stood the French Resistance allegiance in a prideful account of what was to come. llllllllll SIDEBAR lllllllllllllll THE LIMPING LADY, an AMERICAN SPY situated in France to aide the French Resistance during World War II became know as an Austrian gypsy. Her real name is Virgina Hall, a Baltimore native. This work is now historic fiction genre. lllllllllllllllllll Agnes pulls on her friend's shawl, "Mademoiselle Cookie, I beg you. Hurry, we musn't be late. They are expecting us at three a.m." "Oui, mon ami," the tall wobbling lady replies, "I know and this time my life depends on it." Securing safe passage from France is paramount for tonight's meeting. Marcell lights lamps in only the inside of rear stall of the barn. Then waits outside to escort her into the final meeting she'd attend to talk about the final solution, ripping France to shards like pieces of broken wedges from a fractured mirror. Fog grips Orleans akin to a graveside shrouded by clouds and deepening night. The Allies bombing causes a complete blackout spreading across the shadowy countryside. Meanwhile spilling from the city travel refugees by cover of gloomy darkness. Outside in the small orchard, Mademoiselle Daphne shakes a cherry tree's lowest branch. This signal attracts Agnes who leads her charge toward the barn. Inside silent men and women rally attentive, lined up like bowling pins, as close as space can allow, all eyes on Marcell who gains a foot hold on a step leading to the hayloft. He embraces La Dame Que Boite, a courageous American who drops from the sky one day. They recall rolling up her parachute, then placing her with the circus meant to entertain the Germans who occupy France like mold on a bratwurst. "We're to hide you here, Miss Hall. The circus train is to leave without you. It is invaluable the aide your country has given us. Merci." Tall figures with dark coats look upon Crenshaw lift her upward. Her leg seems to bother her again but she looks forward to sleeping an uninterrupted slumber. She's been awake working with d La Monton for 36 hours straight. They've secured one hundred passports from the Austrian Embassy. The animal trainer proves adept at clandestine gatherings. Bantram managed to take a crowd of French speaking refugees, work them into a frenzy of German songs. He's taught them a march and a bit which involves Indians aiming at cowboys in the wide circus ring. In this way their black hair shall not be noticeable to the Germans. A few old nags at first protest saddles and riders but in the end cooperate nicely. If only the secret plan for the fire goes off as well. Marcell further instructs those with carriages. "You are to take her directly to Madrid. Don't stop and don't look back. There La Dame Que Boite shall meet up with her own people." "Oui, monsieur, we'll make it," assures a member of the French Resistance. "Antone sent the exact position of the German battalions directly to the Americans who plan on eventually arriving in Normandy by the droves. " "We're taking a secluded gypsy path all the way to the border. It winds thru forests as thick as the audacity of the gestapo. Never fear." Daphne breaks down, bends over sobbing. "Not only do they pillage everything dear to us, they've actually stolen our history. I curse them all when the day came that they made off with The Bayeux Tapestry. Now in German hands! A disgrace." One fellow steps up, hugs the distraught woman. "We know exactly where it is: Chateau de Sourches. The Marquis is following La Tapisserie de la Reine Mathilde the same way a hunter scours for rabbits, Daphne." Marcell adds, "The German pre-occupation with archaeology, these ridiculous occult quests for the Holy Grail, we intend working to our advantage." "How so, Marcell?" asks his aunt. "Tante Daphne, we're baiting them to start a dig. We'll place our people at the works, hide them there in plain sight. The more Grail stories we weave, the better we mislead them away from deportation of a single Frenchmen." There is not a single soul who is not armed to the teeth with saws, axes, cross bows, pistols, rifles. During the final years of the French Resistance the populace, dubbed marquis, pass information to the Allies, work on their own nationalized plans to eradicate the Gestapo from their midst. ======================= At a small cafe, circus Ringmaster, Mortimer Snodgrass makes another wild promise. "If you take the gypsy woman," reportedly of Austrian royal blood, "perhaps she'll attain trance state, foresee your future success. Surely, the Third Reich shall find her psychic gifts of value. Imagine knowing when your enemies may strike." Mortimer is paid by the purveyor of das Ahnenerbe. Sievers departs. Snodgrass opens a door to the kitchen, hands over an envelope, still warm to the touch, to a forger whose inky fingers sort welcome the money trove. Snodgrass mentions, "Make sure this is for anyone you can save, even if we are buying them time, safety and a bit to keep them safely alive via portioned food stuffs. Things are in place at our end." A low voice at the back of the dimly lit chamber intones: "We are ready to torch the big top after your third night of running le grand show's last finale. You are to leave at intermission. Escape to the train. All of you with great haste. Do you understand, monsieur?" "Yes, I'm ordering the engine stoked, cars to be loaded with all the refugees. We will make it to Holland, I swear to you ... before that tent is burnt to a crisp." "How daring and courageous, you've become, Snodgrass." "Andre, how shall you keep the Germans from running out of the flames?" "Beer is a German soldier's staple. We've plenty of beautiful scantily dressed barmaids, volunteers to circulate the stands bearing mugs. Then when they're smitten solidly with drunken stupors ala special additives we've concoted due to the Apothecary Shoppe d Oleans ....THEN! With great pleasure, we'll readily shoot them one by one." Andre beams his haughty impression. "Well done, Marcell. And I for one know ... that carnival, circus place will be utterly surrounded. Not a single field or railway cove will remain un-trampled by our men and women of the French Resistance. I swear to it on my grave." |
| <> <> <> Snodgrass and Sievers entered the warehouse bordering the railroad yard. Three Wehrmacht soldiers splattered with mud cradled their machine guns while two SS officers greeted them. “Report!” Sievers commanded. “Is he the circus manager?” Captain Dolphlehr inquired. “What does that matter?” Sievers demanded. “Do you recognize that man?” Dolphlehr pointed to a man tied to a chair. The man sat leaning to his left side with his elbows pointing to the ground and his palms upturned. Snodgrass and Sievers walked around to face him. “Guten abend meine Damen und Herren,” the bent man mocked Snodgrass’s familiar salutation. “He does look familiar,” Snodgrass stated, “why do you ask?” “We found him near the animal railroad cars making a mud man.” Dolphlehr recounted. “He and your animal caretaker were there.” “That’s when the mud man came to life,” Sergeant Schultz added. “The damn thing attacked the guards and soldiers. Twenty-three dead. Fourteen injured. Your man Bantram yelled and shrieked like a banshee when the bullets filled the air.” “What happened to Bantram?” Snodgrass interrupted. “We released the simple one an hour ago,” Dolphlehr said. “This one is complicated. He took a bayonet from a dead soldier, climbed upon the muddy back and scraped the forehead returning the attacker to a mound of mud.” “A golem,” Sievers uttered, “sehr interestant.” “I thought you’d be interested,” the bent man said. “How do you make a golem?” Sievers asked. “With faith,” the bent man smiled. “And knowledge?” Sievers prompted. “Of course,” the bent man spoke in a sing song manner. His tone rise and fell like a forgotten melody. “Knowledge is necessary to bring a mound of mud to life: Knowledge of mud, knowledge of man and knowledge of the ancient ways.” “I am looking for something ancient,” Sievers confided. “You are on, perhaps, Parzival’s quest?” The bent man shrugged. “Yessssss,” Sievers whispered. “My very name compels it.” “And you are only a hundred kilometers away,” the bent man nodded to his right. “What do you know?” Sievers demanded. “It’s in the Bible,” the bent man explained. “Moses, an Egyptian prince, learned all of the mysteries of the Ancients. He learned the holy trinity of Osiris, Isis and Horace. He learned of ark building in the southern kingdom and their ritual release of arks down the Nile. He learned techniques of the priests, the way to build powerful machines.” “Yes, yes, yes,” Captain Dolplehr interrupted, “We’ve been to Sunday School.” Undaunted, the bent man continued, “In exile, he build the Ark of the Covenant, and, with it, defeated superior hosts. It is a powerful, dangerous, but powerful, machine. Solomon buried it in the Holy of Holies deep in the Temple Mount.” “How did it get to Chartres?” Sievers pressed. “The dog saint. What’s his name?” The bent man faltered. “Saint Roch?” Sergeant Schultz offered. “No, no,” the bent man searched his mid, “from Clairvaux?” “Saint Bernard?” Schultz proposed. “Yes,” the bent man affirmed, “the dog saint. The Templars, those foolish Frankish adventurers. Not much brains, but they dug around the Temple Mount and discovered two things: A great understanding of Temple and Roman architecture, …” “AND!” Sievers grew impatient. “And a clue,” the bent man leaned to his right. “They showed the clue to the dog saint making outrageous demands. All demands the Pope granted. Much More powerful than the Hospitalers became these Templars.” “So,” Captain Dolphlehr conjectured, “the, Templars found the Ark, the Holy Grail?” “Twenty years,” the bent man resumed leaning to his left, “they followed the path of a refugee group from Jesus’ church. The group disembarked at Marseilles. Joseph leads them on Roman roads towards Normandy though no Normans were there yet. He is merchant, there are several carts. And in one of them, the Ark, the holy Grail. The Ark is dangerous. Many mishaps. It is too much of a burden. They should never take it from Holy of Hollies.” “Wait one second!” Demanded Sergeant Schultz who listened enwrapped by this tale. “ How did they obtain the Ark.” “Ah,” the bent man faced Schultz, “it’s in your new Bibles. The Ark, like all machines, malfunctioned. Solomon, the wise one, sealed it away, with other sacred artifacts, in the old Temple. The seal was so strong, only God himself breaks it. In your Gospels, an earthquake splinters the Temple exposing the Ark. Joseph acts fast and secures the Ark from the Sadducees.” “You mean Pharisees,” Sievers interrupted. “No,” the bent man corrected, “but it matters not. What matters is the Ark becomes a bother to Joseph. He has priests with him. As they walk on the roads, they look for an appropriate spot.” “Chartres?” Dolphlehr interjects. “Even today,” Schultz prophesizes inspired by recent religious revelations, “the Cathedral seems to float above the city. It must be on a sacred mount, a mount like the Temple Mount.” “Exactly,” the bent man confirms. “Is special mountain. You feel it as you walk in its presence. Joseph felt it and buried the Ark there. Several churches were build on top. Each church suffered mysterious destruction. That is why the Templars petitioned Saint Bernard to let them build a Cathedral there.” “And that’s where the Grail is?” Sievers pondered. “Not so easy,” the bent man said, “the first Cathedral built in 1137 fell victim to the Ark. The dog saint was furious. The Templars further studied the broken seals of the Holy of Holies. Learned their secrets. Learned to defeat everyone but God. Their studies completed, they start again in 1220. Retrieving the Ark will be no easy task.” Sievers, Dolphlehr and the SS officers conferred. “Do you think the Jew speaks the truth?” Dolphlehr pondered. “I think,” Sievers contemplated, “he thinks he tells the truth.” “What next?” Dolphlehr asked. “Shall we take him to Chartres with us?” Sievers floated the question in the air. “He is too annoying,” Dolphlehr protested. “Agreed,” Sievers asserted, “plus, loose lips sink …” Herr Sievers turned to the room. “Schultz! Wehrmact! Shoot him!” Safeties clicked to unsafe. Bolts ratcheted filling chambers. Barrels leveled and pointed down. Dolplehr approached the bent man and kicked his chair sending him to the floor. “A sudden end to a silly story, Jew,” he pronounced, turned and strode towards the door. No one noticed the bent man’s arms were freed and untying his legs. The Nazi’s attention shifted to a loud, sudden exposure in the north wall through which a powerful muddy figure advanced. Dolphlehr heard the bent man laugh, “So, little minds, think I made only one.” He remembered the carnage at the rail road station. “Aim at the forehead!” He commanded. A phalanx of bullets pressed north. Many struck the muddy figure. The bent man ran straight through the hole. After a minute and more than two hundred rounds, the muddy figure stopped seemingly melted. “The damned Jew escaped!” Dolphlehr roared. “Never mind that,” Sievers said approaching the Golem. “The mud is bleeding.” Meanwhile: Marcel, scratching his head, entered the milking room of a nearby barn. “Mademoiselle” he called. The Limping Lady, engrossed in her notes, stirred. “Marcel, how did your first transmission go?” she inquired. “A little good,” he said, “a little less. After I transmitted the key code number, I sent an ‘HH.’” “I told you they sometimes do that,” her face now seemed distraught. She wondered if the SOE thought she was compromised. She supervised Marcel on the previous transmission. The British SOE operators should have gained a sense of his timing, his style, his signature. Sometimes, an SOE radio operator sends an “HH,” Heil Hitler, at the end of the message. Nazi radio operators reflexively send an ‘HH’ in return.” “I know,” Marcel seemed defensive, “but how do I know they are not Nazi’s pretending to be British?” “Did they send ‘GTH’ in response?” She asked. “Non,” he said, “un ‘FH.’” Virginia Hall, the Limping Lady, unsuccessfully repressed a chortle. Evidently the SOE was training new radio operators as well. The mood lightened, Marcel asked, “What does it mean?” “It’s a rude gesture about Hitler,” she stated. “I was able to decode part of the message,” Marcel handed her two pieces of paper and a slip of imprinted silk. “The rest is, eh, charabia.” She scanned the message: REQUEST FOR NEW SILK DENIED. ALL AVAILABLE SILK FOR LOPS. WILL CONTACT LATER ABOUT LOPS. MAKE DO WITH WHAT YOU HAVE. OUR LITTLE JEW SENDS THIS POEM CUTHBERT AND I MET EYE TO EYE AND STARTED OUR ADVENTURE. TO HYDE PARK PICADILLY CIRCUS AND PLACES WED HAVE TO CENSURE. RAN INTO YANKS PULLING THEIR PRANKS ACTING RATHER WILDLY. WE LIMBERED OUR SHANKS PAID OUR THANKS AND RETREATED MILDLY. IT IS TIME TO GO HOME REMEMBER THIS POEN MAY IT KEEP YOU IN SAFETY. SHOP FOR STOCKINGS OF SILK A QUART OF MILK TO TAKE WITH OUR CAKES AND TEA. The rest looked like a random assortment of letters. Nimbly, she decoded the message with the same result. She marked the section just after the poem before jotting down the words: “Cuthbert,” “Started,” “Adventure,” “Hyde” and “Park.” This formed an old poem code double transposition key. When things get sticky, Leo Marks informed her, I’ll send you a poem code. Use the first five works greater than three letters to decode the message and confirm the code. “Not a very good poem,” Marcel said. “It’s a dirty little ditty,” she said. “Eh?” “Cuthbert is then name of my prosthesis,” she knocked on her wooden leg. “If he meets it eye,” she placed her hand high up the wooden thigh, “to eye …” “Ah,” Marcel exclaimed, “He peeks up your skirt!” “I’m afraid I’ll have to encode and decode the messages from now on,” she said, “this is the old coding method, and it’ll take a while to teach you.” She sat at a makeshift desk and worked the double transposition cipher. CHURCHILL GIVES SOE NEW DIRECTIVE. SET CIRCUS ABLAZE. HA HA. REFRAIN FROM ALL RAILROAD TRAVEL. GERRY IS PUSHING HIS TIN SOLDIERS AROUND AND INDEPENDENT CELLS PLAN TO DISTRUPT AT EVERY OPPORTUNITY. NEXT NAZI AMBUSH TO BE DETERMINED BY THE BENT MAN. FIND AND ASSIST BEFORE PROCEEDING TO MADRID. AFTER CROSSING THE BORDER COOKIE CRENSHAW MUST DIE AND CAMILE ESQUIVEL WILL START A NEW LIFE. NEXT COMMUNICATION EXPLAIN WHY CAPTAIN TOMMY LAUGHED AT THIS LAST ORDER. IF THIS CUTHBERT YOU COMPLAIN ABOUT SLOWS YOU DOWN ELIMINATE WITH EXTREME PREJUDICE. EOC She looked up. “Marcel, do know about The Bent Man?” “I heard some of the refugees talk about him,” Marcel said. “He is sometimes around them, but not one of them. They say he used to be a rabbi, but they say that about everyone who has a wise word to say these days.” “Can you help me find him?” “I’ll ask around.” Marcel scooped up his hunting rifle, slung it over his shoulder and departed. The Limping Lady donned her overcoat and headed for the railroad yard. She’ll need papers for her next alias, and the clown’s car housed forging operations. She took a secluded path through a sparsely wooded forest. “Hello there,” said a standing man leaning to his left, bent elbows pointing to the ground palms turned upward, Blood soaked through his left sleeve. “I’m glad you do not walk like a Nazi.” “And you don’t stand like one,” she said. “What happened to your arm?” “The SOE equipment division sent armored suits,” he explained. “Some new fabric stops bullets, even machine guns and nine millimeters, but it has heavy padding. To compensate for the weight, they added spring like joints that amplify motion five or six times. Quite impressive.” “And?” The Limping Lady’s patience waned. “Bantram and I put one on Gerard,” he continued. “The damn thing was too shiny, so we covered it with mud. As a joke, I inscribed a few Hebrew characters on it and called it a ‘Golem Suit.’ That’s when the Nazi’s pounced. Bantram ran for safety. The Nazi’s captured him. Gerard tried to rescue him. Killed quite a few before the bullets started flying. I ran to Gerard and told him to play dead. The Nazi’s bought the Golem story. Thought I was some sort of Jewish mystic.” “Is that when you received your wound?” “Not exactly. They took me and Bantram for interrogation. Bantram played dumb, and they bought that too. Sievers interrogated me. I told him a yarn about the Cathedral at Chartres. Just before they shot me, another Golem crashed through a wall, and I made my escape. I’m not sure, but I think it was Bantram.” “I’ll look into it,” she said. “The resistance has medical supplies. Let’s get that arm patched up.” They started towards the farm house. The Bent Man straightened up and took the Limping Ladies arm. “So we’re off to Chartres,” she said. “The rail roads are unsafe. I wonder how we’ll get there.” “I think Sievers will give us a ride,” he answered. “Really now?” “Yep,” he effused confidence, “after you read him his fortune.” ============================================================================= Although this section is heavily fictionalized, it is informed by the following books. Between Silk and Cyanide: A Codemaker’s war 1941 – 1945 Leo Marks’ autobiographical account of his role in British SOE (Special Operations Executive) communications. He suggested replacing published poems with originals and contributed many himself. The Sign and the Seal by Graham Hancock links the Chartres Cathedral to Saint Bernard, the Knights Templars and the Ark of the Covenant. Hancock believes the Ark to be Ethiopia. The Templars carved a church in the shape of a cross out of solid rock there. |
| <> <> <> Hauptssturmfuhrer Klaus Barbie poured himself another cup of hot tea, taking his slow time to add two small teaspoons of sugar and a dollop of heavy cream to the aromatic brew. He picked up a piece of paper and waved it back and forth in the air to Helmut Metzger, his alterer Sergeant. “Qu’est-ce que c’est?” (What is this?} he asked? The Sergeant took the paper and scanned it very closely. " Vorsicht Der gebogenen Mann,” Herr Hauptssturmfuhrer,” he replied. “Nous devons parler en français,” (We must speak in French), Barbie stated, reprimanding the Sergeant. “We are here to bring the French people into the Reich as equal citizens.” “Mefiez-vous la bent homme, mon Capitaine.” (Beware the bent man, my Captain.) the Sergeant replied, somewhat cowed by Barbie’s brutal voice. Barbie was not known as the ‘Butcher of Lyon’ for no reason. He was well known for torturing resistance leaders and as a drug lord before the war. He was also one of the Gestapho’s favorite people. He had been decorated by Himmler himself for capturing the elusive Jean Moulin the previous year thus putting an end to the most dangerous of the French underground leaders. “My informant, René Hardy, sent this little note to me without explanation” Barbie continued. “I want you to go to Orleans and talk with Captain Dolphlehr, our SS contact there and find out more about this message. “He may not want to talk to a mere Sergeant,” Metzger replied. “You know how these SS officers can be.” Barbie took a pen from the inkwell on his desk and scribbled a fast note in German then handed it to Sergeant Metger. “Show him this and he will cooperate fully!” Barbie half yelled. “You will notice the letterhead is from the office of Reichsfuhrer Himmler himself. No doubt this Captain Dolphlehr has heard of me also.” As Metger opened the door to leave, Barbie added; “And speak in French, Sergeant.” Metger despised Captain Barbie and held a strong disdain for both the Gestapho and the SS. He was an infantry soldier and belonged in the Wehrmacht, not with these butchers and criminals. His fluency with the French language; of which he was reasonably proud, had turned out to be a curse and the SS treated him as a lesser member of the master race because his mother was French. When Metger arrived at the Station de train d'Orléans, he was met as he disembarked from the car by two somber SS soldiers. Obviously Captain Barbie had phoned ahead and informed the SS of his impending arrival. No doubt he had also explained his mission to Captain Dolphlehr. At least… Metger hoped that was the case. The soldiers escorted him to a building not far from the train station sitting near the tracks. They marched in step with their elbows practically touching his. He wondered for a second if he was being escorted or taken for execution. Metger noticed an attractive young lady talking with a rough looking man near the warehouse they were approaching. His interest in the woman peeked as his mind told him that he had seen her somewhere before. Hauptssturmfuhrer Dolphlehr was sitting behind a well-used desk as Metger was ushered into the room. Metger gave the officer a sharp salute, which he intentionally failed to return. He noticed that Dolpheher was engrossed in a message, his evil eyes going back and forth on the pages. He finally glanced up and decided to admit that Metger was there. “I received a call from Captain Barbie,” Dolpheher snidely remarked. “I respect Barbie for all he has done for the Reich but I do not favor his methods. He is far too gentle with his prisoners.” “My God,” Metger thought. “The Butcher too gentle…?” “At any rate I am to brief you,” Dolpheher continued. “This message I just received indicates that the SAS has been active in this area. They have supposedly dropped a team in by parachute to disrupt rail service and resupply the local resistance. This may be a prelude to the invasion that the general staff is anticipating. It may also be an attempt to assassinate Generalfeldmarschall Rommel who has been inspecting the units in this area of operations.” Dolpheher paused to allow Metger to digest the information. “Captain Barbie instructed me to ask about a message he received from his informant, René Hardy. The message was, Beware the Bent Man,” Metger replied. “We’ve had some rather strange events unfold lately,” Dolpheher stated. “Some garbage about a Golem and an ancient treasure hidden in Chartres. The Bent Man is a code name for some Jewish Rabbi who allegedly has magic powers. SS Standartenführer Siever believes this garbage and I have been instructed to provide men, transportation and other material to assist him in this silly treasure hunt. In the meantime, the resistance has grown more and more powerful and I am spread far too thin as it is.” “I must also remind Herr Barbie that, ‘Ich bin ein Mitglied der SS-Bruderschaft der Glocke’ (I m a member of the SS Brotherhood of the Bell), and I have my own priorities,” Dolpheher continued. “With the way the war is now leaning, my duties are far more important than either Herr Siever’s or Herr Barbie’s and I do not answer to either.” Metger had heard of the SS Brotherhood of the Bell but as a mere sergeant he had no idea what it was or what it did. There were rumors that officers of that unit were collecting technological data, rare minerals and tons of gold for some reason. He even heard that Admiral Donetz was part of the secret project and that his U-Boat fleet was being prepared for something big. For the next thirty minutes Captain Dolpherer presented him with a laundry list of mundane information then finished with a flourish. “We are having a big circus event in a few days,’ Dolpherer stated, as Metger started towards the door escorted by the SS guards. “Tell Herr Barbie he is more than welcome to attend. I am told that the resistance loves to place agents among the circus personnel and he should have a field day looking for them.” |
| “This rail yard buzzes with activity,” The Bent Man said, although his posture was straight. “After your Golem antics,” The Limping Lady admonished, “what did you expect?” “Such things …” he began leaning to his left pointing his elbows to the ground. “Don’t!” she commanded. That ridiculous posture was his only identity, and, presently, the object of an SS manhunt. His foolishness engendered concern. More bravado than brains, she thought. Typical of SOE agents. So many suffered capture, torture and death while she not only survived, but also contributed to the war effort. She was grateful to join the OSS after America entered the war, but the SOE still handled communications. Determining the origin of assignments proved difficult. “Look who’s leaving Gare d’Orleans,” he said. She saw Mortimer Snodgrass and Claude d' La Monton in the distance. They walked towards the warehouse where she and The Bent Man loitered. “It’s not too late to come up with better plans,” she said. “It’s not good enough to stay one step ahead of these Nazi’s,” he lectured, “we need two steps. Set up the next ambush before executing the current one. And I need your help. Sievers is foolish …” “ … But he’s not a natural born fool,” she said. “I love the way you finish my thoughts,” he smiled. “We’re on the same page. Are you ready?” “Are you sure this transmitter will work?” She pondered aloud. “It’s so small, and the silver egg shell. It’s almost obvious.” “It’ll be fine,” he assured, “just give it some air, and it’ll pick up your séance. Should anything go wrong, we’ll rush in. Just remember to duck and stay low.” "I don't séance," she insisted. "I see the future." “They’ll be here soon,” he observed, “I better leave.” The Bent Man mocked a goose-step towards the clowns car. Why do they send crackpots and charlatans to do serious work, she thought. As Snodgrass and Monton advanced, she saw Monton’s aggravated actions. Snodgrass informed him of a change in plans, she surmised. For a moment, she weighed the thought of d’La Monton’s fat hands on her ass against Sievers’ prying into her mind. She preferred the hands. “Cookie,” Snodgrass saluted. “Mademoiselle,” d’La Monton said. “Gentlemen,” she returned. “Are you ready?” Snodgrass asked conveying not only a requested status but also deeper concern for her well being. He thought this reading will detrimentally change her life. He allowed himself to care a little, although the moment they found themselves in the same circus, her fate changed. It now lies with Sievers not d’La Monton. “It’s what I do,” she said. The answer should have been “no.” Fleeing from Estonia, she ran into a group of Domi Romani who taught her tricks of fortune telling and confidence scams. Their disappointment with her gypsy skills gave way to their amazement of her genuine ability to glance into the future. She guided them successfully through Latvia, Lithuania, Poland, North Germany, Belgium and, finally, France. They parted company when she reconnected with the SOE. She wished they, not The Bent Man, coached her for the performance she must now give. “Excellent!” d’La Monton exclaimed. “I’ve been waiting to see you in action.” At the Clown’s car: Agnes and Marcel sat on the coupling between the Clowns car and the Daredevils. They held hands whilst waiting for The Bent Man to arrive. “Where is your man, Gerard?” Marcel asked. “He’s with your lady,” Gerard replied. “You have another lady?” Agnes pried. “None but you,” Marcel drew her hand to his lips and kissed. “Gerard referred to The Limping Lady. She’s teaching me radio codes.” “The Bent Man, The Limping Lady,” Agnes pondered, “do they make a couple?” “If it’s true about opposites,” Gerard said. “Eh?” Agnes said. “She is beautiful,” Marcel said. “He’s somewhat grotesque,” Gerard rejoined. “She is careful,” Marcel said. “He’s bold,” Gerard added. “She is serious,” Marcel said. “He’s playful,” Gerard countered. “She uses wit and tact” “He uses gadgets.” “She is brief and to the point.” “He spins long, fanciful yarns.” “Is there anything they have in common?” Agnes asked. “They are both intelligent,” Marcel and Gerard chorused. “But I doubt she would ever goose-step,” Gerard said. “Huh?” Marcel and Agnes looked at Gerard, surprised. Gerard pointed towards the station. Two hundred fifty meters down the track, The Bent Man approached goose-stepping. Marcel rapped on the car door. Bertrand - the forgery master, Ethelbert – head clown, Pierre and Alain crowded on the stairs and peered down the track. Bertrand and Ethelbert disembarked and performed their own goose-step parody. Though accomplished clowns, they found the step difficult and lost their balance. Laughingly, the clowns pulled themselves up, advanced and blocked the accomplished goose-stepper. His attempted flanking maneuver met a four handed shove. “Gerard,” he yelled over the clowns, “is the receiver ready?” “Nous avons attendu l'homme coudé,” Bertrand yelled over his shoulder. “Nicht ein Stechschritter,” Ethelbert directed towards the goose-stepper. “They expected The Bend Man,” Gerard yelled back. “Not a silly goose-stepper.” “I translate myself.” The goose-stepper smiled wide from one elephantine ear to the other. He doffed his cap with his left hand, leaned to his right, pointed his elbows to the ground with his palms turned towards the heavens. “But this balding man is wanted by the Nazis. Can we find cover inside?” The clowns mocked his posture, slapped his back and guided him inside their railroad car. Inside he found a small gathering of circus people and resistance fighters including: Lulu, Giovanni and Jasmine Machinano, Daphne, Pierre the Mole and Earless Alain each with an arm in the other’s back, Fernando the animal impersonater, Hercule the Ant and l’Ordinateur, an orphaned savant Pierre found near Brussels. The Bent Man stared at Lulu Machinano. He read her eyes, and she looked away. Then, he glanced at Ethelbert. “Lulu,” Ethelbert said, “don’t you need to practice special tricks for tonight. Your act invites jeapardy under certain dangerous situations.” Relunctantly, the Machinanos filed out of the railroad car. The rest of the group gathered arround the small radio resting next to clowns’ larger radio set. The Bent Man handed Bertand a slip of paper. Bertrand tuned the small radio to the frequency written on the paper. “What’s the range?” Hercule asked. “About a kilometer,” The Bent Man replied. “One hundred seventeen meters to spare,” l’Ordinateur said. Crackly voices eminated from the speaker interupted by bursts of Morse code. “What’s that?” Bertrand asked. “German communications,” The Bent Man guesed. “… So tell me how this works …” “That sounds like Sievers,” The Bent Man said adopting a stiff, straight backed posture. Ethelbert sat at the table and mimed Seivers as well. ”… Miss Crenshaw is the real thing. She sets her mind free and it travels through time. Sometimes the past. Sometimes the Future. Cookie ususally drifts into the future. Where she drifts can’t be controlled. How far she drifts can’t be controlled. She can see into your hidden future or reveal a guarded past, but she can not, I repeat, can not answer a predetermined question …” “That’s Snodgrass,” Bertrand puffed out his chest miming the Circus Ringmaster. “…I’ve heard about gypsy tricks…” “…Yes…” “Our lady,” Marcel added. “…It’s called pen dukkerin. The trick is to make general statements like ‘You’re an intelligent man,’ and you tell me about your college days. That’s called a hit. A few more generalizations, a few more hits and the Fortune Teller connects the dots and tells you the fortune you want to hear. Gadges essentially tell their own fortunes. If you think I’m tricking you, don’t tell me anything. If you want to trick me, tell me lies, and see if I take the bait…” “She shouldn’t reveal the secrets,” Hercule admonished. “The fourteenth Panzer Division confirmed arrived for R&R before redeployment to Brittany,” l’Ordinateur monotoned. “… Then what’s this bag…” The group heard clanking and signal breakup before it stabilized. “…Explain this ball!...Why is there a paper in it…” “…Cookie does not perform side show fortune telling Herr Seivers…” “…Why don’t you explain the crystal ball, Mortimer? ….” “Who’s that?” Bertrand asked. “d’La Monton,” Daphne sneered. “…Some fortune tellers send out several assistants. They stand in line with gadges, non circus people, waiting for the show and overhear their conversations. When they hear something interesting, they join the conversation and exact details. Just before the show begins, they jot a message for the fortune teller passing it, along with the money, to the parka omi, ticket taker. The assistant sits next to their gadge. Another assistant collects the notes and slips under the table. She feeds the paper into the ball and shines on it…” “…Monton! Have you revealed any of my secrets?...” “…That’s for you to tell…” “…I feel outnumbered here. Do you mind if I bring others to witness this. They will keep an eye out for your tricks…” Ethelbert continued miming Sievers. Agnes, who assumed the role of Cookie Crenshaw, sat across from him laughing. ` “Hauptssturmfuhrer Klaus Barbie declines invitation to circus at Orleans,” l’Ordinateur said. “…As many you like Herr Sievers…” Ethelbert moved around the railroad car tapping young clowns on the shoulder saying, “And you young Nazi.” Agnes sat patiently in her chair. Suddenly, a chill ran down her spine concentrating in her lower back until it dissipated. She wiggled slowly starting with her hips, through her back until her head snapped to the left. “…Are you feeling alright Miss Crenshaw…” “…I just felt a draft…” “…Good. Captain Dolphlehr, Sergeant Shultz and the other Sergeant…” “…Metzger, Herr Standartenführer…” The clowns in the car “Zig Heil”ed each other playfully. “…Yes. You soldiers keep a watchful eye on the fräulein here. She is to tell my fortune. I may make critical decisions on her words. In no way let any deception interfere with this event…” “…Her Snodgrass. Last night, your man Bantram interfered with us. Although we understand a circus picks up some, lets say, undesirable, characters along its way, you should consider weeding out this element or your next performance may be at Bergen-Belsen…” The clowns looked sternly at Agnes before turning their mock disapproving gaze on everyone else in the room. “…We have a spectacular, stupendous and amazing show for you here tonight…” “…Miss Crenshaw, proceed…For what purposes are those spheres...” “…They are simple brass spheres … you can pick them up, throw them across the room if you like … Captain Dolphlehr, please retrieve that one. I’ll still need it…They simply help me pick up vibrations. It’ll help if you put your hands on those two near you …” In rail yard warehouse: Sergeant Metzger returned the brass ball Captain Dolphlehr hurled. Both Wolfram Sievers and The Limping Lady rested their hands on other brass balls. Captain Dolphlehr twirled a riding crop in his right hand. The Limplng Lady closed her eyes, breathed deeply and tilted her head back. “Dolphlehr,” d’La Monton advised, “I think your twirling may be a disruption.” “My apologies Herr Sievers,” Dolphlehr conceded stilling the riding crop. The Limping Lady let her fears subside. She concentrated on the subtle vibrations on her palms and breathed out slowly. The images rushed in filling her mind. Her head leveled. With her pupils fixed, she stared at Sievers. “The doctors will be your downfall,” she said. “What doctors!” Sievers demanded. “Sssh,” Snodgrass prompted. “Don’t break the trance.” “You stand together,” she continued. “Accused and convicted.” A moment passed. “A chamber, a crypt. A gold ornate box. The doves of Noah stand on opposite ends pointing their wings towards each other. You stand there happy.” “Good,” Sievers started, but The Limping Lady cut him off. “Beware the bell,” she said. Dolphlehr dropped his riding crop. In an aggregated voice, she continued. “The red bell. It burns without flame. Hundreds, thousands fall before it. The pain, so much pain, so much death. It’s horrible.” “Beyond my greatest hopes,” Sievers chortled. “No,” she said, “he stands there laughing at you. A smiling gargoyle head mounted on a bent frame, his elbows point the ground while his palms, upturned, support an invisible weight.” “We know this man,” Dolplehr stated. “We are on his trail even now.” The images stopped. The Limping Lady fought to regain her prophetic voice and posture, but failed. She opened eyes staring at Sievers. Back in the clown’s railroad car: All were silent looking at Agnes in disbelief. None ever heard The Limping Lady speak in such a manner, nor saw Agnes mouth The Limping Lady’s words. “She went off script,” The Bent Man complained. “…I feel, without him, you can not succeed…” “…Dolphlehr you must redouble your efforts…” “…In my vision he walked down the road holding today’s paper, but it was nighttime. He stops at iron gates with an ornate sun high over it…” “…I know that place, Herr Sievers. It’s the Fonderie Bollée…” “…Miss Crenshaw, what time was this…” “…I only saw nighttime…” “That’s the end of the show,” Bertrand cut power to the small radio. “Well that’s my cue,” The Bent Man said. “Do any of you have a copy of today’s paper?” “You can find one on Rue du Faubourg de Bourgogne,” Gerard said. “So it’s tonight for sure,” Bertrand said. “Thanks to him,” Ethelbert said, “It’s getting too hot to stay around here. Are the tunnels ready?” Pierre turned to Ethelbert’s voice. He guided Alain so both faced the head clown. The Bent Man noticed that they pressed gestures into each others back. It seemed like a silent form of language, a coordination of the symbiotic relationship between the blind Pierre and deaf Alain. “The clown’s carriage trick. We completed extensions to the tunnels two days ago,” Pierre reported. “They lead to the practice tilt. From their we continue our escape to the train.” “How many golem suits do we have left?” The Bent Man asked. The circus members reacted hostilely remembering Bantram’s fate. “Two, but they are already packed on the first truck,” Gerard said. “We’ll acquire the second truck tonight,” Marcel added. “Gentlemen and ladies,” The Bent Man felt a need for a parting speech, “I would say shalom, peace. Instead, I wish you great fortune. Tonight is a night for action. Kill as many as you can, but return unscathed. To those of you coming to Chartres, I look forward to working with you. The rest, enjoy your travel to Marseilles. May sunny days meet you there.” ================================================================================ The web site www.goodmagic.com has a dictionary on circus lingo including a whole section on Gypsy’s. The methods described are fictionalized. |
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