Stile Maus (16 page)

‘My brother,’ he chuffed, ‘not always a modest dairy farmer.  He once ran a clinic in Paris believe it or not.’  Stefan’s eyes glazed over, drifting in and out of consciousness.  Francis racked his mind, he thought it best to keep the boy awake, to try and at least keep him awake.  His free hand ran across one of the many boxes that were piled around the bed.  He knocked away the lid and felt inside.  His fingers clinched at the first thing and he sought out a dust layered picture frame.  The photograph encased within the frail, dust spattered glass forced a smile. 

‘My first race,’ he murmured, ‘started well, battling second at the first turn.  Morgan Drucker, the French champion snapping at my heels.’  Stefan squirmed.

‘Saint-Denis the track.
  It was a warm day.  After hitting a corner I found myself alone, far from the others.  Drucker was a mere speck in the distance.’  Francis seemed to lose himself for a moment, his stare longingly aimed at the black and white form of himself.  He never spoke about his racing days but in trying to comfort the boy he found it quite comforting for himself too.  A blunt smile crept over his lips.

‘The finish line wasn’t far, agonizingly close in fact.  I pulled at the throttle and took to the second from last corner...’

‘How is he?’  Pierre seemed to come from nowhere.  He set down a basin of warm water by the cot. 

‘Still not talking.’

Pierre positioned the scissors around the boy’s waist and snipped at his shirt until it fell languidly to the crimson swelled mattress.  More wounds. 

‘One in the stomach... another straight through the shoulder.’

He cleaned the wound below the chest.  Francis squirmed as a bubble of blood seeped away from the gash. 

‘Where do you think he came from?’

‘Judging by the handcuffs, I’d say our man was in some kind of trouble with the Nazi’s and I’m guessing it had something to do with that gunfire earlier.’ 

Francis nodded in agreement.  Pinching at the boy’s torn shirt Pierre ripped away one of the sleeves.

‘I need you to bite down on this,’ he said with sympathy.  The cloth was folded into a thick clump and placed upon the boy’s tongue.   Pierre unravelled a towel, revealing a bottle of old gin.  The cap twisted and fell to the floor. 

‘Bite down now, son.’  With a quick swoosh the auburn liquor flushed the wound and the boy yelped and tussled against the rickety cot bed. 

‘It’s alright,’ calmed Pierre, holding the boys arm with one hand and the half empty bottle with the other.  Suddenly the golden-brown gin became burgundy, running across the boy’s chest and stomach.  The young man jolted once more as Pierre fetched the needle and edged the tip into the border of his wound. 

‘The slug, it’s too deep to remove.  I can seal it up for now but he needs the right equipment.’

‘What are the chances of finding a doctor who will treat him Paris?’

‘Slim to say the least. 
Unless we can find one that won’t ask questions.’  It didn’t need an answer.

Pierre placed a damp towel over the jagged edge of Stefan’s bullet scratched shoulder.  A simper howled past his gritted teeth. 

‘If you had the tools here, could you make him better?’

‘I could try.’

The brothers looked at one another. 

‘It’s been eight months, brother.’ 

‘It’s a long shot,’ sighed Francis, ‘but it is a shot.’   

In a previous life (eight months prior to the discovery of a wounded Frenchman in his brother’s barn) Pierre Dubois had practiced medicine.  He had a small surgery towards the centre of Paris and rented the apartment above.  His partner, Julia doubled as his receptionist and assistant.  Business was regular, the tiny waiting room never without a fist-cushioned cough or grazed knee.  Their evenings were spent in the flat overhead, dancing to records and drinking wine.  Pierre was as happy as he could ever be.  And then things changed.  The invasion had quite an impact on many businesses around the city, Pierre’s practice was no exception.  He found himself rushed off his feet.  There were more domestic injuries, knocks, swollen bruises.  The treatment of German soldiers became standard practice.  The wounds were different, blast based, caused by mercenary clans and militia groups.  They always paid well.  One night, Pierre was woken by a loud knock. 

‘Pierre Dubois?’

‘Yes.’

‘Is this your practice?’

‘Yes.’

‘We need to see your patient list.’

‘What’s this about?’

‘Please Mr Dubois,’ the officer frowned, ‘the list.’

‘I didn’t catch your name,’ Pierre said as they filed into the waiting room.

‘General Hermann of the Gestapo,’ croaked the commanding officer, ‘delighted to make your acquaintance.’  Four henchmen circled the room, machine guns at the ready.   

The General’s skinny frame came to a halt and he rested an elbow upon the tall curve of the receptionist desk, his face creased into a smile. 

‘Now Mr Dubois about that patient log.’ 

‘Of course.’

Pierre tugged at a draw and pulled out a thick book held together by a small matter of string and bind.  He offered it to the General but he refused, shaking it away with gloved hands. 

‘Koppel.’

A guard stepped forward and took the log before turning to General Hermann who then presented the young soldier with a small black book.  General Hermann grinned reassuringly and nodded at Pierre as the guard set both books down upon the desk.  A throat cleared.  The wall clock ticked.  Pierre watched the officer from the corner of his eye.  His heart couldn’t help but race.  General Hermann wrapped his fingers atop the frame of a silver photograph. 

‘This must be your lovely wife?’

‘Yes,’ replied Pierre. 

He thought of her, draped within their bed sheets. 

‘General.’

‘Aha,’ smirked General Hermann, his cloaked jacket sweeping against his boots as he strode across the room and towards the awaiting officer.   

‘Hmm...,’ he concluded, his eyes following a stretch of faint words, ‘just as I thought.’ 

The General swirled a gloved finger.  Two guards rushed forwards and beat Pierre to his knees. 

‘W-what, what is this?’ Pierre gasped as his hands were forced behind his aching back. 

‘It appears you have a somewhat diverse client base Mr Dubois.’  The guards towering above Pierre held his arms as the General neared. 

‘Are you familiar with the Fuhrer’s policy regarding this?’

‘I’ve served your men,’ spat Pierre, ‘I’ve treated your countrymen!’

‘Yes, yes you have.  That’s why we going to spare you.’

‘Pierre?’ a soft voice sounded from the stairwell.  General Hermann smiled callously.

‘It’s a shame I can’t say the same about her.’ 

‘You touch her,’ seethed Pierre, ‘you touch her and...’  A rifle clattered against the back of his head and he slumped forwards onto his chest. 

‘Deal with her,’ General Hermann muttered, ‘then burn this place down, burn it all.’      

He parked across the street, out of sight.  The practice still stood, basking within the yellow glow of a nearby lamp post.  To Pierre’s surprise the old place hadn’t been torn to the ground, though two of the front windows had been plastered with ply wood and a jagged star splashed against the front door.  Pierre raised the bottle of gin to his lips.  Francis had stayed behind with the boy.  The bottle fell against the brake pedal.  A flashback haunted him and he sat back in his seat.  He could almost feel the hot specks of flame upon his face.  He shook away the memory and left the truck, looking both ways before crossing the empty street.   The objective was a small surgery kit located beneath one of the basins in the consultancy room.  Pierre presumed the place to be ransacked, awash with the footprints of spiteful Nazi’s.  He nudged at the back door and it clicked open.  An assortment of clothes spilled down the stairwell that led up to the flat.  Another flashback.  One of the dresses perhaps?  Pierre slipped into the practice.  A gargantuan sphere of darkness enthralled the small room.  The walls had melted away, the wallpaper disbanding and curling towards the floor.  Thick, black bands of defamatory leaked over the receptionist desk.  Pierre bit his lip.

-He woke, the ash burning at his lashes.  An incredible pain had settled within his chest and stomach and the warm feel of blood trickled over his cheeks.  His palms pushed against the glass covered floor and he stood, stumbling over to the flame entrenched doorway.  He called for her.  No answer, nothing but the crackle of an enclosing inferno.-  

The waiting room had been given the same treatment.  Chairs overturned, fire stained walls, the flooring riddled with half burnt papers and rubble that had fallen from the open ceiling.  The flashback rocked him.  He didn’t have the heart to go all the way in and he turned back into the consultancy room.  His hands dug into the cabinet below the basin.  The kit slipped into his blind grasp.  He thought about heading upstairs.  The gin talking.  He knew there was nothing up there but overturned furniture and painful memories.  The door closed behind him.

The bottle of gin was almost empty by the time Pierre pulled up at the barn.  Francis poked his head outside as the headlamps blazed through the barn’s weather torn structure. 

‘How was it?’

‘Enlightening,’ slurred Pierre.  The boy seemed more relaxed now, less agitated.  Pierre unloaded each small tool from the medical kit and began to dress the shoulder wound.  He worried about the bullet lodged within the boy’s stomach.  The temporary stitching would have to be pulled away and dressed properly if he had any chance of surviving.  It would be a long night.                      

Francis set the kettle down over the stove and waited for the steam to calm.  Pierre sat at the table, his chest bare and his hands pressing into a soapy wash basin.  They hadn’t spoken in a while.  Pierre sniffled, nudging his nose with a soap glazed wrist. 

‘Should be fine.’

‘Huh?’

‘The boy.’

Francis nodded and tipped the kettle slightly so that his cup swelled with hot water. 

‘I can always tell when a lie leaves your lips brother.’

Pierre closed his eyes and sighed.

‘And tell me brother,’ Francis continued, swallowing the rise of steam, ‘tell me why that bottle of gin you arrived with was beyond empty.’ 

Pierre smirked and released the soaking shirt from his slippery grasp. 

‘You’re going to lecture me now?
you’re going to lecture me after making me go back there.’

‘No one made you Pierre.’

‘You’re right, I had a choice.  Risk the boy’s life or face my
selfish
past.  I didn’t want to but it’s better than what you do.  Throw a sheet over your motorcycle and pack up all your memories into a dark corner.’

‘And I suppose the boy’s life was entirely safe in your hands.’ 

‘Don’t be cold Francis,’ Pierre snapped, ‘if it wasn’t for me he wouldn’t have lasted the night.’  He stopped to wet his lips.

‘And may I remind you that it was me who lugged that scrap into the barn each morning, each day, before sunrise. 
Me, Francis.  So save you’re lectures.’  His hands plunged back into the lukewarm water.

‘Tell me.’

‘He hasn’t got much time,’ Pierre murmured, ‘stray shards, I-I couldn’t get it all.  The bleeding inside will catch up with him before long.’ 

Silence once again. 

Her fingers slipped away from the edge of the wall and Emile slinked back into the darkness.  A smile beamed across her face.  Unless she was mistaken, her predictions about the barn had been correct, there was something in there.  And now, judging by her Father and
uncle Pierre’s hushed conversation
a boy
had entered the mystery and she longed to find out more.  She headed back to bed and pulled at the covers.  She knew she wouldn’t sleep.  Tomorrow was a new adventure. 

Stefan woke to the smell of hot soup.  His eyes adjusted to the dim flicker of light dancing above and he tried to sit.  The bowl of soup rested upon a small table beside the cot and he reached out, noticing an unbearable hunger had developed within his stomach.   

‘So you’re awake, finally.’

Stefan blinked at the darkness.  A man appeared, his hair a mottle grey, his beard considerably darker. 

‘Where am I?’ Stefan groaned.  His throat was sore and dry.

‘Just outside of Paris,’ the man said.

‘And who are you?’

‘My name is Francis Dubois, I own the farm.’

‘Oh, I’m S...’

‘Stefan, I know,’ Francis concluded, stepping over to the cot and helping his guest collect the bowl of smouldering soup. 

‘What happened to you, do you remember?’ Francis asked as the boy scooped a spoon into his mouth.  The soup sloped down his throat and soothed the niggling pain.