Madame Brittan pulled the cigar from her lips and let the ash fall to the table, missing the seashell ashtray. She blew out mahogany smoke. The passing waiter coughed.
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‘Madame,’ he said ‘there are tables outside where you may do that thing.’
‘Get me a small, black coffee with cognac.‘ She threw her cigar to the floor and stifled it with the heel of her brogue. Tussles of grey hair fell over her face as she yanked off her beret and plonked it over the ashtray. The waiter stared. Madam Brittan stared back. He tossed his head and strutted away.
To the front of the cafe there were a few more tables, then a newsstand with an array of magazines and papers. There were cigarettes and cigars for sale too. Beyond the cafe door were the outside tables and further than this Madame Brittan could make out the town square. There were just a few people in the square and half a dozen cars parked up. She thought she saw a familiar, blue Citroen.
‘That will be ten Euros.’ The waiter placed a small cup in front of her.
‘Put it on my account.’
‘You haven’t got an account.’
‘Well, make one.’
The waiter didn’t move but put one hand on his hip.
‘Allow me to pay, Madame,’ a British voice said. He was holding a book, his thumb inside the first page.
‘Yes, okay,’ she said.
‘Will you sign your book for me?‘ He put Sleeping with the Nazis by Yvette Brittan on the table and opened it at the front page.
‘Have you got a pen?’ she said.
‘Can you make it out to John? John Fenton.‘ He gave her a silver ballpoint. She scribbled her name on the preface.
‘Can I ask you some questions?’
‘No, I’ve signed your book, that’s all you get.’
‘One question, please.’
‘No.’
‘One question and another coffee and cognac.’ He was crouching by her table and looking into her eyes. Madame Brittan pursed her lips; there was no expression in her eyes.
‘I’ll take your little drink, Monsieur Fenton...’
‘Thank you-.’
‘...And a box of 5 Cuban cigars.’
‘What, for one question?’ he said.
‘Okay forget it.’ she said.
Fenton chewed the inside of his cheek and looked towards the exit. He looked at his book and then at Madam Brittan. He sighed and sat opposite her. ‘You can have your cigars. Now my question is this... ’ he said. She frowned at him. He got up from his chair, went to the newsstand at the front of the cafe and returned with five of the best cigars. She unwrapped the box, took out a cigar and sniffed it; it was sweet and leathery. She lit up and blew out lots of smoke. The waiter came to the table and shook his head.
‘Can we have a cognac in a small black coffee and-,’ Fenton said.
‘That’s a large, black coffee,’ Madame Britton said.
‘And I’ll have a tea.’
‘We don’t do tea, Monsieur.’
‘Coffee then, white, decaffeinated.‘ Fenton made himself comfortable in his chair again. ‘Why did you really sleep with the Nazis?’
‘Have you not read my book?’
‘Over and over again. But I’m not sure I believe your reasons.’
She swigged her coffee, looking at him over her cup. She placed her cup on the table and lifted her cigar near to her mouth, fingering its end. ‘My reasons were for survival. The Nazis gave me food and money. It’s all in the book.’
‘Is that all?’
‘I was so close to the Nazis they couldn’t see I was working for the Resistance. I was that close neither could most of the Resistance see it. Some still don’t believe it but war does that, so what. It’s all in the book.’
‘I think there’s something deeper than survival in what you did.‘ Fenton leaned forward and raised his eyebrows a little.
‘You’re right. Those German boys were a bloody good lay.’ She laughed, banging her hand on the table, the coffee cups shaking, the teaspoons tinkling in the saucers. A woman made a rapid exit, dragging a child in either hand.
‘The locals hate me.‘ She pinched the tip of her nose and wafted her beret in front of her. ‘Memories die hard here. They call me “The Collaborator”. What do they know? Most weren’t born.’
‘But many have relatives who were in the Resistance or were Communists?’
‘Communists, Fascists, Resistance, Nazis - what’s the difference? Listen, I was on both sides. At either extreme of a rainbow is white light. They are all the same.’
‘You slept with a lot of the resistance too, didn’t you?’
‘I was young. We were all young. We had ideals and we thought we were in love.’ She sucked on her cigar and relaxed.
‘Did you have feelings for any of the men?’
‘Who said they were all men. Anyway love is not a feeling -who told you that?’
‘Well, we talk of making love,’ Fenton said.
‘We were blowing up German railway lines and depots. It was very dangerous. Our ‘lovemaking‘ was survival because we thought we could die the following day.’
‘Weren’t you just like every generation, thinking you had discovered sex?’
‘There’s a creature that blows off its sperm when it knows it’s going to die. It’s illogical but it thinks it has a last chance to procreate its species.’
‘That’s nonsense,’Fenton said, flicking cigar ash away from him on the table.
‘I think you’ve had your money’s worth,’ she said, blowing smoke in his face.
‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be rude. Please, carry on.’
‘The sorry British. First you rescue me from Monsieur Faggot the Waiter and then you insult me. But then you waive it all to one side with an apology because you want something.’
‘It was just that I wasn’t following your line of argument.’
‘Oh dear. At least when you were insulting me you were being honest. Look I haven’t got much time. Insult me again and I stop talking. Understand?’
Fenton nodded.
‘Female Israeli soldiers don’t fight on the front line anymore. Want to know why? Because during the Six-Day War they did nothing but shag the male soldiers. It caused chaos’.
‘Isn’t that just because young people were together?’
‘They were in danger of dying.’
‘I still, sort of, well, find it difficult to believe.’
‘Have you never read Freud? Sex and death are very close. Why do you think they call a dead body a stiffy?’ She opened her eyes wide, stirred her cigar in her empty coffee cup and gave out a raucous laugh. Two old ladies rushed past the table towards the exit, their gazes fixed forward. Fenton covered his eyes. The cafe manager, a tall man with a black moustache, came to the table. He wagged his finger at Madame Brittan and then walked away.
‘They put up with me because I’m good for tourists. Most of them don’t realize I’m a foul-mouthed bitch.’
‘I read a magazine interview where you said you were ill-treated as a child. Is it true?’ Fenton was leaning on the table, arms folded.
‘You’ve already had too many questions for one box of cigars.’
‘I didn’t mean to hurt you.’
‘You haven’t. You’re simply taking up my time and my time costs.’ The waiter brought more drinks and Fenton paid for them. Fenton grimaced and said ‘Okay, I’ll get you another box of cigars.’
‘Wont do.’
‘What then?’
‘150 Euros.’
Fenton spat out his coffee. ‘150 Euros?’ Madame Brittan took a slow drink of coffee and stared at him. Fenton took a deep breath and blew out through puckered lips. He smiled. ‘You’re an old robber, you know that. I say that as you’re friend.’
‘The British my friends, really?’ She held out her hand for the cash and he got out his brown leather wallet and gave it to her.
‘So how did your father mistreat you?’
‘He starved me and beat me. How do you like that?’
‘Is it true?’
She became still, staring into nothingness. ‘I can show you the scars if you like.’
‘You poor thing.’
‘Oh don’t pity me because I don’t pity myself. I’m strong and I’m alive. I loved my father although I didn’t like him. I don’t forgive him but I understand him.’
‘Understand him?’
‘He was a drunk. A pathetic drunk.’
‘What do you think about the theory of women choosing an abusive partner when they have been ill treated as a child.’
‘It’s not true. My husband was fine.’
‘But what about sleeping with the Nazis? Weren’t you allowing them to ill treat you? They were some of the cruelest people in history.’ Madame Brittan began to laugh, rolling her head back and banging both hands on the table.
‘All the Nazis I slept with were gentleman.’
‘That does surprise me.’
‘Want another surprise? Want to know who did abuse me?’
‘Go on.’
‘Well, when all the German soldiers had been rounded up by the British Army, I was hiding in a barn waiting for my Resistance contact to come and rescue me. I could see some of the Nazi officers through a crack in the barn door, lined up in the yard. One of them I recognized as someone I’d slept with the previous night. I thought they were all going to be taken to a prison camp. Two British officers appeared at the end of the line. I thought they were talking to the Germans at first. Then I saw them both take out revolvers and point them at the heads of the Germans. I heard pistol cracks and the first two Germans dropped to the floor. The British officers just went along the line shooting each Nazi in turn. The British men were all cheering loudly.’
‘You actually saw this happen?’
‘Of course. It’s war. Then a couple of privates came and found me in the barn. The British were too prudish for rape; they left that to the Russians.’
‘That’s terrible. I’m so sorry.’
‘Don’t feel too bad. I got my own back.’ She reached up inside her long skirt and pulled out a small dark object. Fenton reeled back when he saw Madam Brittan slapping a Walter PPK pistol on the table.
‘Oh God. Put that away.’
‘That’s my memento. Don’t worry - it’s not loaded. I got it off the officer who shot my lover - he must have thought it ironic to shoot a German with his own pistol. I thought it ironic to give him one in his wedding tackle.’
‘You’re unbelievable.’
She burst into protracted laughter again and put her beret over the gun.
‘Ah there you are, Yvette,’ a thin man with a lined face said.
‘Doctor, I thought I recognized your car. Shouldn’t you have a new one, the fees you charge.‘ Madame Brittan lit up a new cigar.
‘I see you’ve ignored my advice about smoking.’
‘I didn’t give up smoking during my three pregnancies, why should I in old age. Smoking is beneficial to the foetus you know; although my younger son is a bit slow - he is only a GP.’
The doctor smiled. ‘Your ankles look a bit puffy. Are you taking that medicine I gave you?’
‘No. It makes me go all day.’
‘I’d better go,’ Fenton said.
‘No stay,’ Madame Brittan said ‘Doctor this is Monsieur Fenton, a British journalist who has got me very cheap so far.’ Fenton’s mouth dropped open.
‘What about the other medicine?‘ the Doctor said.
‘My medicine is caffeine, cognac and nicotine. It helps me sleep, helps me wake and keeps the devil of hatred from me.’
‘Your tests should be back this week.’
‘Am I to die? Who cares I’m ninety one but twenty five in here.’ She banged on her chest with her knuckles. ‘I suppose you want paying?’ She took out a hundred Euros and pushed them under the doctor’s chin.
‘You can pay me in installments.’
‘Go on take it or you get nothing.’ The doctor took the money and she stood up and put her beret on. The doctor flinched as he saw the gun. She placed it under her skirt again and walked out of the cafe.
As she went across the square to her house a man spat at her.
She let herself into her house and sat in her front room that was now filled with a grey light. Madam Brittan poured herself a large cognac and swigged it. She held a photo of her father in front of her and said ‘But this is war father, this is war.‘ At this she took out the Walter PPK and shot herself in the head.
Ian Johnson is a 61 year old dementia nurse with a background in psychiatry and cognitive behavioual therapy. He is currently studying a part time creative writing masters at the University of Bolton.