Short Story- The Customer

This is something a bit different for me, but I enjoy writing fiction in my spare time, and I figured I would share my first completed story. The story and all characters are mine, copyright pending.  I really like WW2 history, and this post WW2 tale is something I have been meaning to write for awhile.  I have a much longer story featuring these characters, but that is a few years from completion.

Caution-  A small amount of language, and considerable discussion of violence. 

The Customer

He was old, and proud, and his dark hair was flecked with gray.  Henri Trenieu stood behind the counter of his wine-shop, arm resting on the counter.  He surveyed his domains with the regality the residents of the Louvre had possessed in centuries past.  Bottles upon bottles lay on dark oak wineracks.  Henri looked to the back wall, where a dim yellow bulb illuminated a Croix de Lorraine, the symbol of the Free French, hand-stitched on a homemade French flag.  He smiled, before a clatter in the back sounded.  Turning his head and scowling, he shouted.  “Pierre!  Mon Dieu, garcon, you are clumsy.”

The tall, lanky youth cried back, “ I’m sorry, monsieur.”

“Don’t be sorry, Pierre.  Do it correctly,” Henri said as the front door of his shop opened and a small bell tinkled.  Henri turned around.

A tall, dark-haired man, dressed in a blue jacket and brown corduroys, stood before him, straight and tall.  The door shut behind him as the man took three steps into the store.

“Bonjour, Monsieur.”

The man nodded as he bent his head and examined the wine bottles.  Henri eyed the man up and down.  He was a stranger, clearly.  The man marched about the store, examining labels.  Henri, eying the man carefully, walked out from behind the counter. 

“You look familiar to me.  This is your first time in my shop, is it not?” Henri asked with a slight smile. 

“Yes,” the man replied, with a faint accent.   Henri frowned. 

“Monsieur is English?”

“English, monsieur,” the man replied, not looking closely at Henri’s furrowed expression.    He turned to look at the flag.

“Eh, the flag?” Henri said

“Yes.  Did you make it?” The man asked.

Henri drew in closer, a proud smile on his face.

“I tore each strip of that cross from Nazi armbands.  I lost my aunt, three friends, and a dozen of good loyal patriots in the war, all from Germans.  I felt like I had to do something.”

“I see.  The Nazis were rotters, ah?”  The man replied.  Henri frowned, the man’s accent irritating him in the same way as a crooked shelf which needed straightening.

“What part of England did you say, monsieur?”

“I did not.  London,” the man said again.  “What is your name, monsieur?  I cannot help but feel that you look familiar.”

“Henri Trenieu,” Henri replied casually.  “And yours, monsieur?”

“Paul Anderson,” the man replied.

Henri’s muscles tensed slightly, and he relaxed after a second.   Paul had noticed. 

“What about it, my name?”

“Oh, monsieur, it is nothing.  Only…”  Henri paused briefly.  “In the early part of the war, there was a German officer with a very similar name to yours, a great war criminal. He killed several innocent men, some my relatives and friends.  He left suddenly one day, at the end of winter in 1941.  No one knows quite where…  Some say he went to South America and died.  Some say he shot himself.  Some say he changed departments. I would like to meet him, and…”  Henri slashed with his hands, suddenly and violently.

“That is so?”  Paul Anderson said with some discomfort at the sudden outburst from a man he barely knew.

“Ah, but it is a fantasy.  He is gone.  You said you thought you knew me?”

“I…  Not you personally.   Do you have any English relatives?”

“Non.  My parents died before the war, to their blessing.  I had no brothers or sisters.  My aunt was killed by this same Paulus Andersohn we have been discussing.”

“You said you led the Resistance?   Quite exciting, I assume.”

“Eh, it was my patriotic duty as a citizen of France.”

“Why?”

“Why what?” Henri frowned and turned his head.

“Why did you go into the Resistance?”

“No one else would.  They were too busy trying to live their ordinary, prewar lives in an occupied France.  Baugh! I knew, oh, Mon Dieu, I knew.  I knew we could not live under foreign b------s… I do not mean to offend.”

“I was not offended.  After all, my country has invaded France more than once.”

“You are an honest man, Monsieur Anderson.  But your country at least had a claim upon Normandy and Acquitaine.”

“The Germans claimed Lorraine and Alsace, did they not?” Paul asked with innocent curiosity.

“Those were eternal French territories,” Henri snapped, with a smile fading quickly.

“I do not wish to offend.  You fought in the Resistance?  The raid in 1941?”

“How did you know there was one?  The only famous raid was in 1942.”  Henri frowned.

“I meant the 1942 raid.” Paul said hastily.

“I did nothing then.  I could not.  The 1941 raid did not happen.  It did not happen, you see, for the men in it died, and I am one of the three men living who fought then.  The rest were captured.  Most of the Resistance in this area, I led.  They rose swift, early, and were beaten.  And it was he, Andersohn, he who led the death of the Resistance.  Mon Dieu, I wish I killed him.  After the raid, families disappeared, and at least three prisoners were shot.  I know that Paulus Andersohn killed one of the men personally under interrogation.”

“Do you ever suppose he might have been sorry for the terrible crimes he performed, this Paulus Andersohn?”

“Him?  No, he was a delusional madman, so Louis Cesan always said.

“Who?”

“Eh, my friend Louis.  He went off to South America, for funding.  He had a few friends out there, with money, he said.  He was going to go and help.  He died, out there, in South America, I learned later.  I wonder…”

“What, monsieur?”

“I wonder if Louis was killed by Paulus?”

“That would seem unlikely, monsieur,”  Paul Anderson said.  “He sounds like the sort of man you would have to drop a mountain on to stop.”

Henri, a puzzled expression on his face, continued. “That was Louis, a brave man.  I have tired you with war stories.  You have your own?”  Paul froze, in the middle of the racks of dark red wine.

“I…  I don’t talk about the war.”  Paul blinked.

“Why?  You look like a brave man.”

“My God, monsieur.  You are far too inquisitive.”  Paul said with a stiff face, acting like a proper Britisher.

“I do not mean to offend, monsieur.”

“You do not.  I…  I once shot an unarmed man, in the war.  I have never really gotten over it.”

“Was he a German?”

“I know he was not.”  There was a pause.

“My apologies.   Take a bottle of wine for no cost for my indiscretions.  I certainly have plenty.”

“Monsieur, you are far too generous.  I cannot accept.  I think I know where I met you, or, rather, saw your picture.”

“Where?”

“I will give you five francs if you can guess by the time I leave this fine establishment.”

“I accept,” Henri said with a grin.  He turned to the wine rack.  “A white wine?”

“I would prefer a good, early-picked Merlot.  I do not know what dinner will be.”

“Here is a fine one from St.-Emilion in Bordeaux.  It is rare among the English to appreciate wine.  You, monsieur, are a man of fine taste.”

“I thank you, monsieur, but I cannot accept; you are as generous with your complements as with your products, but I wish to pay.”

Pierre walked in during this time, a tall, thin youth, of eighteen years.

“Pierre, my garcon, this man, Paul Anderson, says he remembers my picture from somewhere.  Do you know him?”

“I…”  As Pierre thought, he dropped a bottle of wine.  Paul bent down, with one arm, and grabbed the unbroken bottle.  Stepping forward, he handed it to Pierre. 

“Here you are.”

Pierre squinted at Paul, as if he had misplaced his name.  Paul nodded slightly, before asking Henri, who watched the whole process with squinted eyes.

“Did you ever meet Paulus Andersohn?  I find it very odd that a man with such a similar name became so well known around here.”

“He is not well known.  I merely knew his name, as leader of the Resistance, it was my job to know.  Pierre saw him once.”  Henri picked out the Merlot and brought it to the counter.

“Ah, you did?”

“I was a child, playing with a ball,” Pierre began, opening his oft-repeated tale.  “He was a tall man, walking across the street I lived on at the time, with another man.  My ball got away from me, and landed at his feet.  He picked it up, with one arm, like you, and gave it back to me.  ‘Here you are,’ Lieutenant Paulus Andersohn said.”

“I had forgotten his rank,” Henri muttered.  “Nor was he tall.”

“I said that,” Paul Anderson  observed.

“You did, indeed.  Déjà vu,”  Henri observed, with narrowed eyes.

 Pierre squinted again. “You look a bit...”

“Pierre, garcon, show some tact!” Henri commanded in an interruption.  Paul flushed.

“He does!”  Pierre said, scowling.

“Go to the back room, and sort the Bordeaux wines!”  Henri yelled with a face as red as his wines.  “My apologies, monsieur, he’s a new garcon.”  Pierre went through the back doors.

“This is simply fantastical, my God,” Paul shook his head.  “Did you ever see my doppelganger?”

“What?”

“German phrase for person who resembles me.  It is common in English.  We are half German, half French.”

“You refer to the language.  Ah, but what I would not give to meet this, how you say?  Douple ganker.  I would like to meet him again.  I would walk up to him, and say, ‘Lieutenant Andersohn, you criminal, you scum, you murderer and Boche!  I was and am your greatest enemy, I, Henri Trenieu, of the Resistance.’  And then, you see, I would… Oh, but what I would do to him! Hah!”  Henri smiled malevolently, a vengeful gleam in his eye.

“Do you suppose he even remembers you?”

“Why should he not?  I gave him enough trouble.  But, to answer your question, yes.  It was at night, across a distance.  I still think I should recognize his face, however.  He was remarkably short, too, but a great shot.  It was he whom shot my companion, Doctor Phillippe Marsaix.”

“I wonder.  Pierre said he was tall?”

“Pierre was a small garcon at the time.”

“Perhaps it was a different man.”

“Eh,” Henri said indifferently.  “Perhaps.”

“I met a Nazi officer once, after the war.  He had deserted.”

“Eh?  Go on,” Henri said.

“He said once, standing as I stand here, he said, “I wish that I could take back every bullet, every blow, I have given.”

“Andersohn cannot,” Henri said, shaking his head.

“More’s the pity,” Paul Anderson said.  “This same officer, he was short.”

“Eh.”  Henri shrugged.  Paul continued.

“He was a naval man, by the name of Klaus von Brunswick.  He had been an officer on a Undersea Boat, and left it, to serve in an expedition.”

“Eh?”  Henri asked again, looking Paul in the face.

“Yes, it was 1941, I believe.  He left from this very town, so he says.”

“Is that so?”  Henri said with a note of curiosity in his voice.

“Yes, they voyaged to the Amazon jungle.  There, the entire group, who survived the expedition, defected.”

“Paulus Andersohn went to the Amazon, it has been said,” Henri muttered.  “Mon Dieu, that murderer!  They pardoned him!”

“I do not know.  Why should they not pardon?”  Paul Anderson asked.

“Monsieur, you must hear me again.  Paulus Andersohn is an evil man.  He must die for his crimes,” Henri said vigorously.

“How many enemies of France did you kill?  Do not tell me, monsieur, I do not desire to learn,”  Paul replied.  “The number does not matter.  If the Allies had lost, you would be dead for leading the Resistance.”

“Mon Dieu, monsieur, I am a good man!  I served my country, and I should be glad to die for it?”

“You are angry that this German did not die for his country, then?”

“Mon Dieu, non, sept fois non!” Henri exclaimed.  “Seven times no.   I want him to die for his d----d crime!”

“If he dies for his crime of murder, should you and I not die for ours? We are also murderers, are not we so?”

“I have only ever killed, in the war, the evil.  What is the number of men you killed in the war?”  Henri asked, slightly furious at the obstinate man.

“Seventeen, to my knowledge,” Paul Anderson replied coldly, after a moment.

There was a pause.  The air seemed suddenly to chill around them, and both men ceased speaking.  Henri’s eyes flickered.  “Let us conclude our business, Monsieur Anderson,” he said after ten seconds.

“What is the price?” Paul asked as he got out his wallet.

“Five francs,” Henri said, a sly smile forming on the corners of his lips.  Paul put the money on the counter.  Henri took it, but as he handed Paul the bottle of wine, he began to speak again.

“Before you go, Monsieur Anderson, I must say one last word.  I assume your name is a coincidence?”

Henri looked, with sharp eyes and slight smirk, at the man’s face.

Taking the bottle of wine, the man said nothing.

“What, monsieur, or  herr?”

The man calling himself Paul Anderson looked back, and a small, strained smile crossed his face.  “I did not kill Marsaix, or your aunt. Guten Tag.”  As he spoke in a flawless German, the man left the store, marching out swiftly and shutting the door behind.   Henri gaped after him, the correctness of his guess staggering him.  He strode forth after a moment, and threw open the door.  Looking right and left, he could not see the man anywhere. 

“D--m him, Mon Dieu!” Henri shouted, marching to the back of his store.  Seeing the five francs on the counter, he dashed them to the floor. “An equal man with me, that criminal?”  He stood stiffly, flushed and furious, the wine-seller, the patriot, Henri Trenieu, under the flag he had made for Liberty, Fraternity, and Equality.