Kirsche

By R. Harlan Smith

Mitchel Becker ventures in Versailles, France days before the Nazi occupation, confident he can get out before the Nazis invade. It isn't the first time he's been wrong. Then he meets Kirsche. He doesn't realize she is a trained Gestapo assassin. 

Enter Burns of Army Intelligence who coaxes Mitchel to play into Kirsche's hands, letting her help him escape Nazi occupied France into Switzerland where Kirsche abandons him. 

Burns then tells Mitchel he must go to Singapore to protect Jacob Haro, a scientist who has defected from Nazi Germany and the secret project he was assigned to, the V-1 buzz bomb. Mitchel doesn't know the man he is protecting is the man Kirsche is assigned to assassinate. 

• Language: English
• Publisher: R. Harlan Smith
• Release date: Mar 1, 2016
• ISBN: 9781524270506

R. Harlan Smith

I write, for the most part, in the paranormal genre. Ordinary people with extraordinary abilities make for more interesting, character driven stories that have greater appeal than plot driven stories.  My settings are usually in and around Gary, Indiana where I attended Lew Wallace high school, and lived the better part of my younger years through the 50's. My tendency to overdo descriptive passages comes from my fondness for the suburban areas south of Glen Park, the southern most part of Gary. The years I spent in Los Angeles also contribute to my settings. My characters are modeled after people I have known, and are rarely simply contrived, so everything I write is somewhat autobiographical by virtue of the setting and my relationships with the actual characters. My interest in the paranormal arises from my own personal experiences which led to researching them and finding some explanation for them from authors such as Carlos Castaneda and Jane Roberts, as well as my education (BA Behavioral Sciences). I will tell you truths you won't believe and fictions you'll embrace like the gospel, but I won't tell you which is which.

Book preview

Kirsche

R. Harlan Smith

Published by R. Harlan Smith, 2016.

This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people, places, or events are entirely coincidental.

KIRSCHE

First edition. March 1, 2016.

Copyright © 2016 R. Harlan Smith.

ISBN: 978-1524270506

Written by R. Harlan Smith.

For B. Ambrose

R. Harlan Smith is an Indiana Painter and Writer. His travels include a tour of the Mediterranean with the Navy and back and forth across the U. S. by car and thumb. His education consists of A.A.s in English Literature and Paralegal Procedures and a B.A.in the Behavioral Sciences.

His work is character driven, and when asked what he writes, he will answer, Literary Fiction on The human condition.

R. Harlan Smith lives retired in Arizona with his two cats.

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Contact: [e-mail]

Kirsche

Table of contents

1  The Germans have taken Poland.

2  If it were not for coffee and cigarettes,

3  Burns put me at ease

4  I didn’t feel like eating.

5  I have come to like Kirsche.

6  "The message is sent.

7  We were cold and hungry

8  I couldn’ t have had more adrenalin

9  It occurred to me

10 We moved the Doctor’s bed

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Kirsche

by

R. Harlan Smith

1

The Germans have taken Poland. France would be next, everyone was sure of it, but I was confident I could get in for a few days and back to England before I was caught up in any real danger. It wasn’t the first time I’ve been wrong. It was my last chance to see the gardens of Versailles in winter. My friends in England thought I was mad. It was early May, 1940. I had to dash for the train that would take me from coastal Calais to the city of Versailles. The French are fond of setting schedules and ignoring them.

I saw her in the dining car. She caught me staring. It was, in a sense, our initial introduction. She looked away quickly with an expression of contempt, an act I imagined had stopped dozens of admirers in their tracks. Had I known then what I was to learn later, I might have been wiser to look away with contempt.

How would I describe her: a work of Art, a delicate, butterfly of a woman, draped in the haute couture of the day. She was accompanied by a stout, little man with slicked-back hair and a poorly fitted, brown suit with whom she seemed very bored, and who, in turn, seemed to adore her. Several times he summoned the steward to attend to something at their table for her. I imagined her a celebrity of sorts, traveling with her manager. She seemed oblivious to his rude impatience toward the steward. I took an immediate dislike for him. His name, I was to learn later, was Ulrich Bregmann, a minor, but well-connected authority in the Gestapo Command.

I was to get off at Versailles and proceed to the Louden, an obscure, but comfortable little old-world hotel where they knew me. My reservations were made. Barcevic, the manager and bartender, was expecting me. My breath was taken away once more when I heard Ulrich instruct their driver to the Louden, as well. I was shown directly to my room where I saw Uhlrich chatting with two men in the hall. They went quiet while I opened the door to my room and went in.

It was late in the day and I was anxious for a bath and a nap, then dinner around the corner at Marcel’s. I was surprised to see her and Uhlrich with the same two men at a table at the back of the room. They spoke in German in hushed, tense conversation. The only word I could catch was Peenemunde. It was used often in their discussion. A buzz of conversation and faintly heard Mozart filled the room. She was visibly upset, only picking at her plate. Ulrich seemed too cavalier with her distress. When they finished and passed out of the room, she nodded and smiled politely. Ulrich could not see. I nodded in return, thinking she remembered me from the dining car. My heart raced. I had to meet her. I had to speak to her.

I was annoyed I could not sleep. I tossed the covers aside and dressed carelessly and went down to the lounge. A few drinks would help sleep come easier. Once more I was stunned to see her alone at the bar; what luck. Barcevic stood behind the bar, lighting her cigarette. I remained discreet and kept my distance. It occurred to me my restlessness in bed came from the intuitive knowledge she was here, alone at the bar.

She glanced at me and offered a polite smile. I nodded, but she looked away, not interested in my response. She sat quietly, smoking and sipping