The Street Had No Name

Chapter 12

FRANCE, 1942

They arrived at the Bordeaux station and gave thanks to the old priest who nodded and pulled away as the big black car bucked and shuddered under its driver’s commands. The platoon of soldiers charged with the task with keeping order gave hardly a look at the priest and the Monk as they stood in line, waiting to be “processed”. Their papers were dutifully signed and their seats taken without further ado and they left, along with a rag-tag group of travellers; bound for San Sebastian, about 220 kilometres to the south. From San Sebastian they would be travelling on to Alegia in Guipuzcoa, a destination the Monk had offered and one Bidderman accepted with no argument, it was a good as anywhere in his mind and, once they got there, well then they would see. That was all that had been planned at this stage. Their papers were useless from that point and the Monk had suggested earlier that from there it would be on a wing and a prayer.

The black Mercedes that roared past the bus on the road out of town, followed by two troop trucks and an army staff car caused Bidderman to breath in a sigh that was quickly stifled by the hand of the young man alongside squeezing his forearm.

No words needed to be said. That car was Gestapo, the convoy was not army per se, the soldiers were SS, these people were the eradicators, those that came and took away. There did not need to be any discussion as to where they were going when they turned on a main road that led north west towards Sainte-Bazeille; they were no doubt heading there at their best speed. At least their immediate whereabouts had not been discerned, that caused Bidderman to become relaxed for the first time since the night before.

The accidental release had caused this but he now had confidence that the confinement was absolute. Providing he kept it safe, the box shut and the little magic he was able to weave woven, they may be all right.

The night descended as the old bus, road worn and past its replacement date in a normal world, the gas bladder like some timeworn placenta on its roof, droned on. It took the twists and turns in the road as it negotiated the journey like some old Clydesdale on a milk run would, stopping where it needed to stop and moving on when that was appropriate. One got the impression that this journey would happen forever, tonight was just their involvement in something as old as time.

About 1900 hours, they were stopped at a checkpoint near a small village. Bidderman could see the black uniform of the SS officer in the guardhouse. It was cold out, the elevation they had undertaken since leaving Bayonne was bringing with it a chill of mountain air. It was never the place of the Reich’s finest to do the hack work, so, as the detail made good its checks and interviews, the modern day black knight kept warm beside the room heater with its tell-tale chimney in the centre of the ship-lap hut. Bidderman could see him with his hands wrapped around an enamel mug sipping the steaming liquid it contained. The image, so docile in itself caused the old Rabbi to shiver.

The young private pushed his way along the aisle, already his young spirit had learnt the lessons of domination, his place above all those here, save any other initiate of a higher and more respected station in this secret order of the Master Race.

He stopped at the Monk and the priest, some glint of recognition formed in his dark brown eyes, his peasant’s brow lifted and a word began to form on his lips. The Monk touched his hand, the one holding their papers and he stopped as quickly as he had begun, staring at them. “Now, private, you don’t see anything here do you?” he continued his hold, the soldier lazily nodded, the Monk’s voice so soft, even Bidderman had difficulty hearing it “you are happy with everything and we can go.”

He let go and the soldier straightened his shoulders, paused for a second then turned and bustled his way back out. “Nothing at all Sir” he yelled in guttural German sounding northern to Bidderman. The older man, a sergeant waved the bus on as he put his weight on the boom gate. Bidderman dropped low in his seat as they drove on, glancing into the hut as they did. The SS officer was looking out but did not seem to see anything. The young Monk moved close to the old Rabbi’s ear, whispering, “just a little of my magic”. Nothing much more was said for the remainder of the that leg of the journey.