Chapter 35

Curses ... foiled again!

Mother was waiting at the Dunkerque dock.

"Fancy meeting you here," I said ... in a rather perturbed voice.

Mom grinned, "They have airplanes in England."

"Imagine that," I said.

"They fly to France," she said.

"Imagine that," with a little more sarcasm.

"I understand the English learned how to find France by air during the war."

"Mom ... your brother..."

"Ah ... yes ... I had quite forgotten Harry."

A USAAF pilot, Mother's brother and youngest sibling, Harry, had flown bombers ... B-17's ... I think ... from a unit base in England to targets in France and Germany. Shot down on the very last raid before the surrender he was captured and escaped while being transported to Stalag VII-A, Germany's largest Prisoner of War camp, just north of the town of Moosberg.

Stalag VII-A served also as a transit camp through which prisoners, including officers, were processed on their way to other camps. Every officer passed through it. The camp was liberated 29 April 1945, just before the German surrender.

Harry didn't make it there. He killed his transporting SS driver and escorting SS officer and disappeared into the Bavarian countryside. Harry wasn't found for three months. He was shipped home. Never discharged but never quite sane, Harry spent the rest of his life in military hospitals.

As typical of the times, when his name was pulled from the 'lucky hat' ... clerks put in his promotion papers ... they were signed by REMF's, people who never and didn't. Lieutenant Bleeker died a full colonel in 1978 ... still in the hospital ... and never sane.

He was still alive in 1956.

Mother said sadly, "I had quite forgotten Harry." She wasn't alone ... so had everyone else.

A back I distinctly remembered from before ... although I couldn't recall exactly ... entered the Customs Office.

While we were standing waiting for our train to make it's makeup, a man in the livery of the Canadian Rail system approached.

"Austin's?"

"Yes sir," I replied.

"Passports?"

Uhoh ... trouble ... Grace had hers, I had mine, Sally waved hers ... mother had hers done at the airfield ... but I had forgotten Amber. Amber had had no time ... and I wasn't thinking ... imagine my shock when Amber removed hers from her purse. We were led to Customs and scrutinized. Did you know the French have a bureaucrat whose job it is to examine your documents ... a Scrutinizer.

Completely different from the man who riffles through your luggage looking for contraband ... Americans called him the thief.

Our baggage had already passed through ... but there were a few difficult moments because we didn't have so much as a briefcase. The man in the CR uniform explained. Shopping in Paris is an acceptable excuse ... luggage would be present on our return ... filled with the wonders of France. We were duly stamped and deemed worthy of admittance.

We were next directed to the currency exchange. The official rate was not quite 9.8 Franks per Pound. This was an official exchange and they offered 8Fr. I was insulted. It's very difficult to be insulted with volubility when the man who is attempting to rake you over the coals needs subtitles. After an exchange of insults ... I think, I was trying my very best to insult him and I know that he was equally engaged when Amber ... you remember Amber ... stepped between us and presented him with a new asshole ... in perfect and idiomatic Parisian French. Receding eyebrows all around.

The official blushed bright red ... then white ... what ever she called him must have been very bad. He summoned a gendarme ... the exchange official exploded, arms and hands expostulating as furiously his tongue. He completed his complaint and folded his arms ... a very picture of a man victorious.

The gendarme turned to Amber ... who entered into a riot of French. She, too completed her epoch with a look of triumph. The gendarme raised his eyebrows and looked at the official. Even his tiny black mustaches quivered in rage. He slapped the counter and held out his hand. The official shrugged and handed over a pamphlet. The gendarme pointed at a line on the page, slapping the counter again. A subtitle-less mess ensued ... Amber hid a smile.

The money was counted ... the exchange made. When the bureaucrat was finished, I found he had given us 11 Fr. per Pound. Amber grinned and kissed the gendarme on both cheeks. Amber is a very pretty girl ... still wearing her loose scoop-neck blouse ... I am sure the flic got an eyeful ... as she intended.

She, Amber, explained to me that we would need more ... but the rate in Paris was closer to 18 Fr. Here in the Provinces, a closer watch was kept.

"Is everyone ready?" CP asked ... quite amazed at this small obviously English girl who spoke such perfect French and slaughtered her native English.

As we left we could hear the exchange official and the policeman laughing at the argument. It was all an act ... most tourists accepted the scam and paid. Amber was a breath of spring to the jaded official. I think.

The engine wasn't the quality of our descent across the length of England but it wasn't a motorcar. Amber continued her lessons in American ... I slept in our Pullman berth. Accommodations were made for Amber as mother had possessed herself of her ticket.

Nine oh five AM, Central European time ... Paris, Gare du Nord 18 Rue de Dunkerque ... the Station of the North Province, 18 Dunkirk Street ... finally! There was a slight contretemps at the hotel because we were one extra. But we had the top floor and there was plenty of room. (The penthouse was the private residence of some royal. Otherwise we would have been living there.)

Our luggage was already unpacked and our meager clothing hung pitifully in huge closets.

Mother put her foot down. "We are taking naps, girls. We will visit the shops at a fashionable hour. I expect us on the go by 3PM ... Scatter you!!" Her finger selected them one by one.

Fortunately, the girls had been too excited during the trip to sleep ... Grace made an attempt to remain awake ... but was stared down.

"David!"

I snapped to and almost saluted.

"With me," she said and we trooped to the elevators. I was careful to remain a half step behind. In the lobby we marched to the desk. The clerk saw the look in Madame's eye; the Day Manager was summoned. Before he could even open his mouth, Mother explained what we were doing in Paris, approximately how much money we were intent on spending and enquired the possibility of a guide. "Nine hundred Fr. a day for someone competent in fashion," she said.