Migoz2
Senator
No, that's what people use your driving for - to scare little children........
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Last Liaison in Lyon
- Thread starter windar
- Start date
No, that's what people use your driving for - to scare little children........
connoisseurs
Senator
I wouldn´t put it that way.One would think I was a complete incompetent, the way you tell it, Conno!
RacingRodent
Consul
Harsh Martinet
Consul
But did she remember to load it?
RacingRodent
Consul
Loxuru
Graf von Kreuzigung
Rather : 'Unsere Fahne flattert uns voran!'
A-hem! Really? Not so fast! Check your maps!
Talk about skating on thin ice ...
I have visions of Moore's Mauser being held to your head by the end of this
More permanently effective than demerits?
Do you feel lucky, punk?
Rather : 'Unsere Fahne flattert uns voran!'
A-hem! Really? Not so fast! Check your maps!
Why? Do they have fine print somewhere?
Guys seem to like when I hold their stick shift.
I thought gear shifts were for those occasions when the guy’s inept lovemaking left something to be fulfilled.
Harsh Martinet
Consul
Driving gloves make for sure handed gear shifting...
windar
Teller of Tales
Barb prefers to use her tongue though ...
Migoz2
Senator
Harsh Martinet
Consul
windar
Teller of Tales
21.
Klaus could only compare the scene to something from one of the American comedies he had so enjoyed watching in the little theater in Boston, whenever he had managed to take a brief break from his coursework.
Something by Buster Keaton, perhaps, or maybe Charlie Chaplin or The Three Stooges. He wished he could have seen what the Stooges and Chaplin did with that strutting idiot of a Fuhrer in their satires, but those films were made after he was back in Germany, where, of course, those films were not shown, both because they made fun of Hitler and because the comedians were Jews.
But, only in a movie could he imagine two people trodding along beside a road in the Black Forest on a cold March morning, his future bride, her feet wrapped in her panties and stockings, having run the car they had stolen into a ditch.
And that thought hit him all of a sudden. They were idiots, dummkopfs. “Barta!” he cried. She turned around to look at him. “We can’t get the car repaired in Bad Rippoldsau-Schapbach or anywhere else. It’s stolen. The cops are probably all over it right now and if they aren’t, any garage owner will want to see ownership papers which we don’t have.”
Barta looked at him, crestfallen. Obviously, he was right, and she, a highly trained agent, had missed that. God only knows what else she had missed. “You’re right, Heinz, of course. She waited for him to reach her and threw herself into his arms.
“I’m exhausted,” she said. “I was tortured and bombed and have barely slept since leaving London, since Olga’s customers kept me up most of the night. That’s why I crashed the car, sheer exhaustion. I’m really a good driver, honestly. It’s just all too much,” she sobbed, her body shaking in his arms.
He stroked her hair and kissed her tear-stained face. “You’re right,” he said. “What we need to do before anything is rest, so we can think clearly and make some plans.”
“But where, Heinz?” she asked. At least she was together enough to use the name that matched the one on his documents. “It’s too cold to sleep in the woods without any blankets or sleeping sack.”
Klaus gestured around him. “Down most of the side roads are chalets. Rich people from Stuttgart and the Rhineland come here in the summer. Sometimes they come in the winter for Nordic skiing and the like and in fall for hunting. But in March, they don’t come usually.”
“Do you know any of them?”
“No,” Klaus replied, “But it doesn’t matter. They usually have locks that are very easy to open, or at worst we can break a window. The only problem would be if we were unlucky enough to pick one where the owner’s house in Stuttgart was bombed and they come here for refuge. But we’ll have to take our chances and hope for the best.”
Just ahead off the right side of the highway, was a dirt track that led into the forest. “Almost certainly, there will be several off that path,” he said pointing. They began trudging down the path, dodging patches of snow and ice that hung on against the still early spring.
Soon, they came to a cluster of three chalets, all done in rustic style, with rough-hewn wooden beams. Klaus tried the first one, but the lock on the door seemed fairly strong. The second one he tried, however, had a rather rusty padlock. He searched around and quickly found a fist-sized rock. It took only three hard hits before the corroded metal gave way.
Inside, the chalet was cozy. There was a sitting area with a sofa covered with a checked woolen blanket and a rocking chair. To one side was a plain wooden table with four simple chairs set next to a small kitchen. On the other side was a cast iron stove, which was the source of heat for cooking and comfort in this chilly season. Klaus had noticed a small pile of split logs by the side of the chalet.
Off the sitting area was a single bedroom. The bed was covered with a woolen blanket that matched the one on the sofa. Over the bed was a portrait of der Fuhrer. Klaus turned it around so Adolf faced the wall.
“Wouldn’t want HIM watching us, would we?” he said. Barta laughed. “Bathroom needs must be taken care of outside. Probably a privy round back, I would guess. A bit rough, but it will do, no?” Barta nodded.
They went back into the sitting area, “I will try to start a fire,” Klaus said.
“Good, I’m freezing,” Barta replied. “At least they were kind enough to have left some cans of sauerkraut and sausages,” she said, rummaging through the cupboards in the kitchen. “And some tea,” she added, holding up a jar filled with dried leaves.
“Wonderful!” Klaus exclaimed. “Let’s hope I can find some reasonably dry kindling.” He came went out and returned after several minutes with some pine needles and twigs and a few larger split logs, which he arranged inside the stove.
“I think you’ll want these,” Barta said, holding up a box of matches from one of the cupboards.
“Our good National Socialist hosts thought of everything,” Klaus said, neatly catching the box Barta tossed in his direction. Soon, he had a nice fire going and it wasn’t long before the chalet warmed enough that they could take off their jackets.
Barta found a pan to heat the sausages and kraut and Klaus filled a pot with water from the well to make tea. Neither of them had eaten in close to 24 hours, so they devoured their impromptu feast. Then, exhausted from the adventures of the previous night, they laid together under the blanket on the bed and fell asleep, Klaus cradling Barta in his arms.
When Klaus woke, it was just getting dark. Barta wasn’t in bed, but he heard her rustling in the kitchen. Sleepily, he got up and went out to see what she was up to. She was humming a tune and opening another can, the last one remaining on the shelf. He looked at the label. It was in French-“Paté de Canard”. “Nothing but the best for us,” Barta said.
“We could be dead by this time tomorrow, so why not?” he replied. “If they hadn’t had the picture of Herr Hitler on the bedroom wall, I might have left some money here to compensate the owners, but in this case, I think not.”
Barta nodded. “Listen, Heinz, it’s comfy here and I suppose we could rustle up some food in town, but it’s too dangerous to stay. We need to leave in the morning.” She brought the paté and the remains of the sauerkraut to the table.
“I agree,” he said. “I’m nervous about stealing another car in such a small place, though. Even if I drive.” She glared at him.
“So you want to walk to Strasbourg? With underwear on my feet?”
Klaus shook his head. “No, I suppose not. Can you ride a bicycle?”
“Yes, of course,” Barta replied.
“You said you could drive a car, also,” he teased.
She punched him in the arm. “I was exhausted. I’m rested now. I suppose bicycles are safer, no registration and harder to trace.’
“Yes, exactly,” Klaus said. “Once it’s dark, we will walk to the village and look for two bicycles that are not locked up. I think most people in a little village will not lock them. We will ride them back here.”
“Then, first thing in the morning, we will head for the Rhine. It’s about 60 km to Kehl which is just across from Strasbourg. We should make it by tomorrow evening. But the bridges will be guarded, almost certainly.”
Barta nodded. “OK, but we will need a different cover story. No one will believe a businessman and his secretary are riding bicycles to Barcelona.”
Klaus laughed. “No, I suppose not.” He thought for a minute. “How about this? We are neighbors in Stuttgart and our apartment was destroyed in the bombing. We are going to stay with my cousin in Strasbourg.”
“I like that,” Barta said. “What’s his name?”
“Werner Kessler.”
“And his address?”
“I don’t know. My address book was lost in the air raid. I only visited him once, but I know the street. It’s near the Cathedral in the Old Town. Very picturesque,” Klaus said.
Barta thought. “It’s got about a hundred holes in it, but I can’t come up with anything better. Now finish your paté and let’s go.”
By this time, it was quite dark. They walked back down the dirt track to the highway and followed it towards Bad Rippoldsau-Schapbach, a couple of km ahead. The highway wasn’t heavily travelled, but a few times, they saw headlights in the distance and scurried into the dense woods until the car passed.
Despite the short distance it took almost an hour, because Barta couldn’t walk very fast in her improvised footwear, but eventually they reached the outskirts of the village. It was very quiet-rural people went to bed early. The second house they passed had a bicycle propped against the side wall.
A few houses further, was another bicycle. Next to it were a pair of boots. “Look, Barta, not only a bicycle, but boots! Try them on!” Klaus whispered.
She snuck carefully along the wall of the house. She slipped the boots over her feet. Klaus could see that while they were hardly a perfect fit, they were certainly an improvement over the underwear.
“Go quickly!” he told her. “Back towards the chalet. I’ll follow on the other one.” He could see that her riding wasn’t much better than her driving, but it would do. He grabbed the other bicycle and they headed back down the highway.
It took only 15 minutes or so to make it back to the chalet. Soon they were snuggled under the blanket.
“I suppose this is our honeymoon, such as it is,” Klaus said.
“We’re not married, yet. I told you we’ll talk about it when we’re safely out of here.”
“But you know, there’s a good chance we won’t make it, Barta. So this could be our last night together. We shouldn’t waste the opportunity.”
She smiled. “That’s not a bad pickup line.” Then she kissed him hard. It was cold in the bedroom as only some of the heat from the stove penetrated into the room, but they were under the blanket and if they shared their body heat it was warm enough, especially when naked skin pressed against naked skin and bodies rubbed together.
“I can warm your insides a bit if you’d like, Barta.”
“Oh, and how do you propose to do that?” she asked.
“Well, you see,” he said, rolling her onto her back. She was very wet and he slid inside her almost effortlessly. “Is that warm?” he asked.
“Mmm,” was all she answered.
Afterwards, as she lay in his arms, Klaus asked, “Who are you really, Barta? You know everything about me and I really know very little about you, except that you’re a marvelous fuck.”
“Isn’t that enough?” she asked.
“Perhaps, but I’d like to know a bit about you.” Klaus was not so naïve that he didn’t realize that she had layers of cover and nothing she told him could be taken at face value. Still, the story she chose to tell might say something.
“Like what?”
“Your real name, for a start.”
“Brenda McKinley,” she said after a moment.
“OK,” he said. “Brenda McKinley. And where in the US are you from?”
“Cincinnati. In Ohio. There’s a lot of Germans there and I picked up some from them and then perfected it here. French I started in school.”
“I see,” Klaus said.
“Look, it’s best for you not to know much. But if they torture you, you will crack. It’s not possible to hold out forever, that’s what you can tell them. If we make it to safety, I might have a whole different story, OK? But we have a long day tomorrow, so you’ll have to accept this for now. Now let’s get some sleep.”
In the morning, shortly after sunrise, they set out. They walked the bike through the forest around Bad Rippoldsau-Schapbach in case the owners of the bikes were up and about and then followed the road through the forest, descending into the Rhine Valley to Kehl and the bridge, which, miraculously had not yet been hit by Allied bombs.
At the entrance to the bridge, there was a group of soldiers. “Your papers,” the Sergeant demanded.
They handed them over. He glanced at them. “Where are you going?”
“To Strasbourg,” Klaus (Heinz) replied. “This is my neighbor, Frau Moser. Our apartment in Stuttgart was destroyed by the bombs. I am hoping we can stay with my cousin, Werner Kessler. The goddamn Limeys haven’t bombed Strasbourg yet, thank God.”
The Sergeant spat on the ground. “Those filthy bastards. And the Americans are worse. Good luck to both of you.”
He handed them their papers and they rode across the bridge towards the Gothic spire of the Strasbourg Cathedral, one of man’s greatest works, that still stood despite man’s most awful and debased actions that the depraved leaders of Klaus’ native land had set in motion.
Klaus could only compare the scene to something from one of the American comedies he had so enjoyed watching in the little theater in Boston, whenever he had managed to take a brief break from his coursework.
Something by Buster Keaton, perhaps, or maybe Charlie Chaplin or The Three Stooges. He wished he could have seen what the Stooges and Chaplin did with that strutting idiot of a Fuhrer in their satires, but those films were made after he was back in Germany, where, of course, those films were not shown, both because they made fun of Hitler and because the comedians were Jews.
But, only in a movie could he imagine two people trodding along beside a road in the Black Forest on a cold March morning, his future bride, her feet wrapped in her panties and stockings, having run the car they had stolen into a ditch.
And that thought hit him all of a sudden. They were idiots, dummkopfs. “Barta!” he cried. She turned around to look at him. “We can’t get the car repaired in Bad Rippoldsau-Schapbach or anywhere else. It’s stolen. The cops are probably all over it right now and if they aren’t, any garage owner will want to see ownership papers which we don’t have.”
Barta looked at him, crestfallen. Obviously, he was right, and she, a highly trained agent, had missed that. God only knows what else she had missed. “You’re right, Heinz, of course. She waited for him to reach her and threw herself into his arms.
“I’m exhausted,” she said. “I was tortured and bombed and have barely slept since leaving London, since Olga’s customers kept me up most of the night. That’s why I crashed the car, sheer exhaustion. I’m really a good driver, honestly. It’s just all too much,” she sobbed, her body shaking in his arms.
He stroked her hair and kissed her tear-stained face. “You’re right,” he said. “What we need to do before anything is rest, so we can think clearly and make some plans.”
“But where, Heinz?” she asked. At least she was together enough to use the name that matched the one on his documents. “It’s too cold to sleep in the woods without any blankets or sleeping sack.”
Klaus gestured around him. “Down most of the side roads are chalets. Rich people from Stuttgart and the Rhineland come here in the summer. Sometimes they come in the winter for Nordic skiing and the like and in fall for hunting. But in March, they don’t come usually.”
“Do you know any of them?”
“No,” Klaus replied, “But it doesn’t matter. They usually have locks that are very easy to open, or at worst we can break a window. The only problem would be if we were unlucky enough to pick one where the owner’s house in Stuttgart was bombed and they come here for refuge. But we’ll have to take our chances and hope for the best.”
Just ahead off the right side of the highway, was a dirt track that led into the forest. “Almost certainly, there will be several off that path,” he said pointing. They began trudging down the path, dodging patches of snow and ice that hung on against the still early spring.
Soon, they came to a cluster of three chalets, all done in rustic style, with rough-hewn wooden beams. Klaus tried the first one, but the lock on the door seemed fairly strong. The second one he tried, however, had a rather rusty padlock. He searched around and quickly found a fist-sized rock. It took only three hard hits before the corroded metal gave way.
Inside, the chalet was cozy. There was a sitting area with a sofa covered with a checked woolen blanket and a rocking chair. To one side was a plain wooden table with four simple chairs set next to a small kitchen. On the other side was a cast iron stove, which was the source of heat for cooking and comfort in this chilly season. Klaus had noticed a small pile of split logs by the side of the chalet.
Off the sitting area was a single bedroom. The bed was covered with a woolen blanket that matched the one on the sofa. Over the bed was a portrait of der Fuhrer. Klaus turned it around so Adolf faced the wall.
“Wouldn’t want HIM watching us, would we?” he said. Barta laughed. “Bathroom needs must be taken care of outside. Probably a privy round back, I would guess. A bit rough, but it will do, no?” Barta nodded.
They went back into the sitting area, “I will try to start a fire,” Klaus said.
“Good, I’m freezing,” Barta replied. “At least they were kind enough to have left some cans of sauerkraut and sausages,” she said, rummaging through the cupboards in the kitchen. “And some tea,” she added, holding up a jar filled with dried leaves.
“Wonderful!” Klaus exclaimed. “Let’s hope I can find some reasonably dry kindling.” He came went out and returned after several minutes with some pine needles and twigs and a few larger split logs, which he arranged inside the stove.
“I think you’ll want these,” Barta said, holding up a box of matches from one of the cupboards.
“Our good National Socialist hosts thought of everything,” Klaus said, neatly catching the box Barta tossed in his direction. Soon, he had a nice fire going and it wasn’t long before the chalet warmed enough that they could take off their jackets.
Barta found a pan to heat the sausages and kraut and Klaus filled a pot with water from the well to make tea. Neither of them had eaten in close to 24 hours, so they devoured their impromptu feast. Then, exhausted from the adventures of the previous night, they laid together under the blanket on the bed and fell asleep, Klaus cradling Barta in his arms.
When Klaus woke, it was just getting dark. Barta wasn’t in bed, but he heard her rustling in the kitchen. Sleepily, he got up and went out to see what she was up to. She was humming a tune and opening another can, the last one remaining on the shelf. He looked at the label. It was in French-“Paté de Canard”. “Nothing but the best for us,” Barta said.
“We could be dead by this time tomorrow, so why not?” he replied. “If they hadn’t had the picture of Herr Hitler on the bedroom wall, I might have left some money here to compensate the owners, but in this case, I think not.”
Barta nodded. “Listen, Heinz, it’s comfy here and I suppose we could rustle up some food in town, but it’s too dangerous to stay. We need to leave in the morning.” She brought the paté and the remains of the sauerkraut to the table.
“I agree,” he said. “I’m nervous about stealing another car in such a small place, though. Even if I drive.” She glared at him.
“So you want to walk to Strasbourg? With underwear on my feet?”
Klaus shook his head. “No, I suppose not. Can you ride a bicycle?”
“Yes, of course,” Barta replied.
“You said you could drive a car, also,” he teased.
She punched him in the arm. “I was exhausted. I’m rested now. I suppose bicycles are safer, no registration and harder to trace.’
“Yes, exactly,” Klaus said. “Once it’s dark, we will walk to the village and look for two bicycles that are not locked up. I think most people in a little village will not lock them. We will ride them back here.”
“Then, first thing in the morning, we will head for the Rhine. It’s about 60 km to Kehl which is just across from Strasbourg. We should make it by tomorrow evening. But the bridges will be guarded, almost certainly.”
Barta nodded. “OK, but we will need a different cover story. No one will believe a businessman and his secretary are riding bicycles to Barcelona.”
Klaus laughed. “No, I suppose not.” He thought for a minute. “How about this? We are neighbors in Stuttgart and our apartment was destroyed in the bombing. We are going to stay with my cousin in Strasbourg.”
“I like that,” Barta said. “What’s his name?”
“Werner Kessler.”
“And his address?”
“I don’t know. My address book was lost in the air raid. I only visited him once, but I know the street. It’s near the Cathedral in the Old Town. Very picturesque,” Klaus said.
Barta thought. “It’s got about a hundred holes in it, but I can’t come up with anything better. Now finish your paté and let’s go.”
By this time, it was quite dark. They walked back down the dirt track to the highway and followed it towards Bad Rippoldsau-Schapbach, a couple of km ahead. The highway wasn’t heavily travelled, but a few times, they saw headlights in the distance and scurried into the dense woods until the car passed.
Despite the short distance it took almost an hour, because Barta couldn’t walk very fast in her improvised footwear, but eventually they reached the outskirts of the village. It was very quiet-rural people went to bed early. The second house they passed had a bicycle propped against the side wall.
A few houses further, was another bicycle. Next to it were a pair of boots. “Look, Barta, not only a bicycle, but boots! Try them on!” Klaus whispered.
She snuck carefully along the wall of the house. She slipped the boots over her feet. Klaus could see that while they were hardly a perfect fit, they were certainly an improvement over the underwear.
“Go quickly!” he told her. “Back towards the chalet. I’ll follow on the other one.” He could see that her riding wasn’t much better than her driving, but it would do. He grabbed the other bicycle and they headed back down the highway.
It took only 15 minutes or so to make it back to the chalet. Soon they were snuggled under the blanket.
“I suppose this is our honeymoon, such as it is,” Klaus said.
“We’re not married, yet. I told you we’ll talk about it when we’re safely out of here.”
“But you know, there’s a good chance we won’t make it, Barta. So this could be our last night together. We shouldn’t waste the opportunity.”
She smiled. “That’s not a bad pickup line.” Then she kissed him hard. It was cold in the bedroom as only some of the heat from the stove penetrated into the room, but they were under the blanket and if they shared their body heat it was warm enough, especially when naked skin pressed against naked skin and bodies rubbed together.
“I can warm your insides a bit if you’d like, Barta.”
“Oh, and how do you propose to do that?” she asked.
“Well, you see,” he said, rolling her onto her back. She was very wet and he slid inside her almost effortlessly. “Is that warm?” he asked.
“Mmm,” was all she answered.
Afterwards, as she lay in his arms, Klaus asked, “Who are you really, Barta? You know everything about me and I really know very little about you, except that you’re a marvelous fuck.”
“Isn’t that enough?” she asked.
“Perhaps, but I’d like to know a bit about you.” Klaus was not so naïve that he didn’t realize that she had layers of cover and nothing she told him could be taken at face value. Still, the story she chose to tell might say something.
“Like what?”
“Your real name, for a start.”
“Brenda McKinley,” she said after a moment.
“OK,” he said. “Brenda McKinley. And where in the US are you from?”
“Cincinnati. In Ohio. There’s a lot of Germans there and I picked up some from them and then perfected it here. French I started in school.”
“I see,” Klaus said.
“Look, it’s best for you not to know much. But if they torture you, you will crack. It’s not possible to hold out forever, that’s what you can tell them. If we make it to safety, I might have a whole different story, OK? But we have a long day tomorrow, so you’ll have to accept this for now. Now let’s get some sleep.”
***
In the morning, shortly after sunrise, they set out. They walked the bike through the forest around Bad Rippoldsau-Schapbach in case the owners of the bikes were up and about and then followed the road through the forest, descending into the Rhine Valley to Kehl and the bridge, which, miraculously had not yet been hit by Allied bombs.
At the entrance to the bridge, there was a group of soldiers. “Your papers,” the Sergeant demanded.
They handed them over. He glanced at them. “Where are you going?”
“To Strasbourg,” Klaus (Heinz) replied. “This is my neighbor, Frau Moser. Our apartment in Stuttgart was destroyed by the bombs. I am hoping we can stay with my cousin, Werner Kessler. The goddamn Limeys haven’t bombed Strasbourg yet, thank God.”
The Sergeant spat on the ground. “Those filthy bastards. And the Americans are worse. Good luck to both of you.”
He handed them their papers and they rode across the bridge towards the Gothic spire of the Strasbourg Cathedral, one of man’s greatest works, that still stood despite man’s most awful and debased actions that the depraved leaders of Klaus’ native land had set in motion.
windar
Teller of Tales
Just a brief historical note on Strasbourg and the surrounding region of Alsace. While it was culturally more German than French, Alsace was largely incorporated into France in the 17th Century and remained there until the Franco-Prussian war, after which, in 1871, Alsace was made part of Germany.
Alsace went back to France under the Treaty of Versailles after World War I. During World War II it was not formally annexed, but was incorporated into the German Reich merged with the state of Baden. Young Alsatian men were conscripted into the German army (how unwillingly remains the subject of controversy even today), The territory was returned to France in 1945. Today, Strasbourg is the home of the European Parliament, chosen because of its status as a symbol of Franco-German reconciliation.
So, in 1943, The Rhine was not actually the border, as it had been through much of history including today. Of course, all of France was occupied, so where the actual border was wasn't so clear. Nevertheless, for the purpose of the story, we imagine that the bridges as choke points would be a likely spot to stop travelers and ask for papers.
Alsace went back to France under the Treaty of Versailles after World War I. During World War II it was not formally annexed, but was incorporated into the German Reich merged with the state of Baden. Young Alsatian men were conscripted into the German army (how unwillingly remains the subject of controversy even today), The territory was returned to France in 1945. Today, Strasbourg is the home of the European Parliament, chosen because of its status as a symbol of Franco-German reconciliation.
So, in 1943, The Rhine was not actually the border, as it had been through much of history including today. Of course, all of France was occupied, so where the actual border was wasn't so clear. Nevertheless, for the purpose of the story, we imagine that the bridges as choke points would be a likely spot to stop travelers and ask for papers.
windar
Teller of Tales
You lie on a rug?I lie like a rug. Absolutely shameful
I'd say shameless is moore like it...
RacingRodent
Consul
connoisseurs
Senator
Rolls Royce? So typically for Barb. Always only in style.
Harsh Martinet
Consul
Tumescence seems to be a characteristic of all female SOE agents....and it attracts the worst kind of attention! Beware Barb!!!
Loxuru
Graf von Kreuzigung
As if anyone has ever doubted that.