Clash by Night by Doreen Owens Malek Page A

down the hall, putting as much distance between herself and the German as fast as she could. Once she rounded the corner of the corridor she halted to catch her breath. Relax, she told herself. The man is unnerving but he isn’t psychic. He can’t tell by looking at you that you’re hiding an American marine in Pierre Langtot’s barn.
    That reminded her of the errands she had to run that day and she hurried off again to post her grades.
    Becker walked into the library and stopped before Lysette, who had witnessed the little scene in the doorway.
    “Your friend hates me,” he said bluntly.
    Surprised by his candor, Lysette replied in kind. “She would like to see you marching out of France.”
    “She would like to see me roasting on a spit,” Becker countered wearily, removing his cap and smoothing his hair with his other hand.
    Lysette covered her mouth with her fist, and it was a moment before he realized that she was trying not to giggle.
    “You find that amusing?” he said, smiling slightly as he deposited his books on the table before her.
    “No,” she said quickly, and then added, “I mean, yes, but...”
    He smiled wider at her confusion.
    Lysette grabbed the books and said quickly, “Did you enjoy these?” He had returned Therese Raquin and Madame Bovary .
    He made a dismissive gesture. “I think I’ve read enough about unhappily married Frenchwomen for the moment. It’s not a subject which particularly interests me.”  
    He was glancing around the room and missed her change of expression.
    “I’m sorry you found them dull,” she murmured, turning to place the books on a shelf behind her.  
    “I didn’t say that,” Becker replied, looking back at her.
    She shelved the books and turned to him. She glanced up and their eyes met.
    “How did you come to work here?” he asked softly, as if he had the right to know, and she answered promptly.
    “The man I cleaned for sent me to school.”
    “The man you cleaned for?”
    “Yes, I was raised in an orphanage and he was a patron of the nuns who ran it. They sent me to him as a maid.”
    “What happened to your parents?” Becker said.
    “My mother died when I was born, and my father went back to Poland. He left me with the Sisters.”
    “So your father was Polish,” Becker said, putting his hands behind his back and striding to the wall of windows on their left.
    “Yes.”
    He turned to face her. The sun streaming through the dusty glass behind him made an ebony helmet of his rich black hair. “During the fall of Warsaw I saw Poles on horseback charge tanks.”
    “That was foolish, I suppose,” Lysette murmured carefully, unsure why he was telling her about it.
    “‘It is magnificent, but it is not war’”, Becker said thoughtfully, looking over her head, his eyes fixed on nothing.
    “I beg your pardon?” Lysette said, bewildered.
    His gaze returned to hers. “That was said about the Charge of the Light Brigade in the Crimea.”
    She didn’t know what he was talking about and looked it.
    “It was very brave, but useless, like the Poles I saw charging tanks,” Becker clarified.
    “Oh. I see. But maybe the Poles felt that if they were going to die anyway, they might was well die fighting.”
    Becker nodded, studying her face. “Yes. I think they felt that way,” he replied quietly. Then, as if he hadn’t digressed he put his cap on the wooden window seat and inquired, “Were the sisters in the orphanage kind to you?”
    “Yes, but...” she said, and stopped, as if afraid to reveal too much.
    His dark eyes narrowed. “But?”
    Lysette shrugged eloquently. “They were kind in their own way. But when they did something for you, they were really doing it for God, not for you, and you felt that, if you know what I mean. There was always that... distance.”  
    Becker nodded again, slowly. “I understand.” He walked toward her once more, and this time moved behind the desk, removing that obstacle between them. He paused in