Normandy
He turned it over and over–every possible way. It was heavy, badly rusted and there didn’t seem to be any way to open it. It was about the size of one of the big cans of juice his mother bought at the market and had a handle on the top (or bottom, depending on how you looked at it). He pushed and pulled, twisted and turned. It was too badly rusted for anything to move.
“Hey Marcel!” Marcel was going to stop anyway but made a show of braking hard and letting the rear tire of his bicycle swing around, stopping just inches away from Francoise’s feet. Francoise cringed inside in anticipation of the chain guard digging into his shins but didn’t let himself move while he returned Marcel’s gleeful, expectant look with one of elaborately casual disdain.
“What?” Marcel, smarting from the failure of his display, affected the same casual air.
“This—fool!” Francoise sensed he had the upper hand and was resentful that his courage had been put to such a senseless test.
“So what? What is it?” Marcel feigned disinterest but, whatever it was, it was intriguing.
This contest of wills had been a summer event since 48 when they were 8 years old and Marcel’s parents had begun summering here. They were twelve now but nothing had changed.
“Don’t know—the handle was sticking out of the bank.” Francoise pointed to a fresh tear in the soil by the path. “Cut my leg on it”, he pointed proudly to a divot in the outside of his right calf with a banner of mostly dried blood running down to and disappearing into his sock. Only the injured spot itself still glistened wetly in the summer sun.
They stood there looking first at the fresh hole in the dirt, exactly the same shape as the thing, and then at the thing itself, comparing—calculating.
“Look! There she is!” Marcel pointed with a flick of his eyes and what seemed to him like a very subtle gesture with his head. Apparently it wasn’t as subtle as he had hoped. She straightened perceptibly and looked straight ahead as she rolled by. “You know what Joseph says, right?”
“Yeah, but I don’t believe him”, Francoise watched her receding back and he had a distressing hot, cold, trembly feeling in his stomach as he gazed at her buttocks and the way they folded over the seat of her bike, “Joseph wouldn’t even know how.”
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“Son of a bitch!” Hans turned the pin over and over—every possible way. He pushed straight in and at an angle. He tried pulling it back out for another try or to replace it with a different pin. Too slick. “If you’re so goddamn slick, why won’t you slide in there?” He gave it one last savage push. His fingers slipped and one side of the clip on the end stabbed him between the thumb and forefinger. “Damn, damn, damn!! He shoved the torn webbing between his lips, tasted the blood mixing with the lubricant from the pin and spit it out. “Goddamn, goddamn, goddamn.”
“The fuhrer wouldn’t approve Hans.” Albert made a clucking sound with his tongue and grinned his enjoyment at the little drama across the moving belt.
“To hell with”—Hans glanced down the line toward the next station, “you.”
“Relax Hans. Just put it on the belt.” He too glanced down the line. “Just put it back on the belt. Let it go on.”
“The bastard isn’t going to work” Hans groused. “They’d have to hit it with a two pound hammer.”
“What’s the worst that can happen?” Albert leaned against the edge of the line, “Some Ami will get to keep his balls another day—maybe even have children with them.” “My god! Can you imagine having one of these bastards pop up in front of you? You’d know what was coming and there’d be nothing you could do—no time to do anything—just dread. What would you do?”
Hans flinched. “I think about that at night. I’d try to turn around real fast. If you lived through it, it would be better to have your ass blown off than your dick.”
Albert got the grin on his face again. “So that’s what you think about at night, Hans. I thought—speaking of that—there she is.”
“Oh my aching god” Hans groaned. “Oh my aching goddam god.”
“Oh your aching balls” Albert corrected.
“Ah yes, that too.” “Ackermann, that lucky bastard.” “What do you suppose she sees in that fat, bald headed little bastard?”
“Ass! She sees a plant manager. She sees an apartment, a sedan, and shopping—when there’s anything to buy.” Albert’s voice threatened to rise. They both looked up and down the line at the other stations. Hans set the canister on the belt and they watched raptly the poetry of her flanks as she turned the corner toward Ackermann’s office.
The canister glided smoothly along the belt, rocking gently at each roller junction, to the next station where Amala would slip it smoothly into the divided box with the other forty-seven. From there to the next station where the top would be sealed and from there to the dock and on to France.
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”Neither would you” Marcel taunted.
Francoise didn’t answer. He just stood and stared at her receding back and wondered at the trembling turmoil within him.
“Let’s follow her.”
“No. Why?” Francoise gave him a look that tried to be withering.
“Maybe she’s going to meet Joseph.” “Maybe we’ll see something” Marcel urged.
Francoise watched as she turned past the crumbling gun emplacement and down toward the beach. He reached for his bike as he threw the thing on the ground.
Lorelei braked to a sudden stop on the path down to the beach, put one foot down and the seat groaned softly as she turned to see what had exploded.