Bellringer by J. Robert Janes Page B

French of the middle and upper classes—somewhat easier for a foreigner like him to understand. ‘A little barter and on the quiet, eh?’
    Had this one really been a prisoner of war as the sûreté had said? wondered Senghor. If so, it could only mean trouble, but had it been said as a warning and bargaining chip?
    ‘The guards do it,’ said one of the others. Bamba Duclos, thought Senghor.
    ‘Every man for himself, Boss,’ said another. Blaise Guéye for sure. ‘We defend our beefsteak.’
    We’re only standing up for our rights. ‘ And you have a system just like everyone else, eh?’ asked Kohler.
    ‘Are not all circumstances to be beaten, Boss, by those over which they form a lid?’ replied Senghor.
    And no fool. ‘Did any of you agree to meet with Caroline Lacy at the Chalet des Ânes?’
    ‘Hermann, go easy. The negotiations are at a delicate stage.’
    Still there was that grin, the teeth really very white and big.
    ‘No, Boss. None of us talked to that girl. Les Américaines . . . ’
    ‘They call us lazy niggers,’ said one of the others, also with a grin.
    ‘Even though you cut and haul the firewood and do all the other heavy chores?’ continued Hermann, bent on unwittingly laying to waste all that had been gained.
    ‘ Ah, oui, oui, Boss,’ said Senghor, ‘but not all of those girls are like that. Only some. The mademoiselle Lacy was young and pretty, and for her sake as well as for our own, none of us would have spoken to her.’
    ‘When others were nearby, eh?’
    ‘Hermann. . . ’
    ‘Louis, leave it. Let him answer.’
    And spoken like one of the Occupiers: ‘For fear of reprisals, Boss. Herr Weber is a tough, hard person.’
    ‘Who remembers well the occupation of the Rhineland, Hermann.’
    In 1919, when the Allies moved into the area, France, thinking it best, had sent the Tirailleurs sénégalais and other coloureds as their contingent, thus spawning hatred from the occupied Rhinelanders then and retribution now.
    ‘The usual distressful stories of rape, Hermann. Herr Weber had a sister who was found amongst some ruins. Her clothes had been torn, her neck broken.’
    ‘Half our number are out in the forests, Boss, cutting and hauling firewood and logs for lumber,’ said Senghor. ‘Half are here, and every two weeks we change. Those that are left come home and those that sometimes don’t must wait for spring until the ground becomes unfrozen.’
    ‘Hermann, some of the Americans are fond of calling them “fresh.” Herr Weber knows this and waits for it.’
    ‘Even though some will wiggle their breasts and bottoms at us, Boss, and try to play us up in other ways, are we not men?’ asked Senghor, still with that grin of his.
    ‘And the British?’ asked Hermann, wanting to air all the linen.
    ‘What do you think, Boss?’
    ‘That they’re far more friendly.’
    ‘Since many of them come from slums like us?’
    ‘And like a bit of fun?’
    This Gestapo wasn’t going to be easy, thought Senghor, his collaborator of a partner no pushover either. ‘They love to haggle, and always it is best that they think they’re getting the better of us, so we let them.’
    A man of truth, was it? ‘And Madame Monnier?’
    Hermann still wasn’t going to leave it.
    ‘The juju lady’s lead henchwoman. With her we must be very careful, Boss, so if we can, we do as asked and get her whatever she wants.’
    ‘Chocolate, Hermann. She has a sweet tooth.’
    ‘The juju lady or Madame Monnier?’
    ‘Both.’
    ‘Extra firewood,’ said someone, reaching for more sauce.
    ‘Wallpaper,’ offered another, thinking to help his sergeant.
    ‘Paper, Corporal Rivette, to light their stoves and cooking fires.’
    ‘ Ah, oui, oui, mon sergent . For the fires.’
    And for a little something else? wondered Kohler. And where, please, would they be getting it when the rest of the nation couldn’t? ‘Those golf balls,’ he said, pointing to a string bag that held a good hundred and far too many