Frederick's American Café

Note to readers: This story is set in North Africa during WWII. It contains Nazism, anti-semitism and other bigotry, homosexuality, adultery and gun violence.

Note to readers: The story includes a few French and German phrases. To save on the use of footnotes, the ABBR tag hides the English translation. Mouse-over the foreign phrase to see the English text. This is not available on all readers.

Chapter 5

Anne kept her word to stay out of sight by continuing to keep to her room or visiting Mrs. Croft. Frederick saw no sign of her but her sister appeared in the evenings to watch parts of Lulu’s show. From the looks of it, the two were getting on well.


And so Thursday bled into Saturday.


That night, Harville approached him looking agitated.


“Marie has a man in the kitchen, boss.”


Frederick merely patted him on the shoulder. “I’m sorry to hear it. I know how attached you were but c'est la guerre.”


Harville blinked. “No, boss. That’s not what I meant. Some guy showed up at the kitchen door all beat up something awful. He’s a real mess.”


Frederick sighed, which turned into a groan. People rarely showed up at random so far from civilization, at least on foot. The act of getting to Avamposto Calce was arduous enough that all but the fools and the desperate turned back. When Frederick had arrived here five years ago, he had been so dehydrated, a single drink had put him under for days. Chances are, this idiot was similarly circumstanced. With one last glance at the crowd in the bar, he headed to the kitchen.


Marie Harville was the head cook at The American. She was also the closest thing to a doctor at the outpost. Whoever this stranger was, he was in the best hands available. Mrs. Harville had the man sitting in a chair as she cleaned his face. Under layers of sweat, sand and blood, she uncovered sunburn and exhaustion. He moaned intermittently as she touched a tender spot, his eyes fluttering open briefly.


He was a picture deserving of abject pity, but Frederick felt a distinct lack of sympathy. “Tell Charlie to send back two doubles of our strongest whisky. Then send someone over to Croft’s,” he instructed Harville. “We ought to tell the Elliot sisters that their brother finally showed up.”


He watched in silence for a little longer, chewing through the bitterness that rose up within him like a spring. Then he came closer to the figure in the chair and raised his voice. "Russell Elliot, you're a sight for sore eyes." It felt a little like justice to see him looking like that.


Russell looked up, bewildered. There was a lack of recognition in his expression, a delay as he sought to piece it together. "Wentworth?" he said at last in a dry croak. He coughed before continuing. "What are you doing here?"


"I live here. I own this hotel," Frederick answered. "You know, when Anne first told me you were coming, I was angry. But now that you're here, I find the whole thing very gratifying."


The rancor in his tone attracted an astonished stare from Mrs. Harville, but Russell only noticed his words.


"Anne?" he repeated hopefully. "Anne made it? What of Guy and Elizabeth?"


"They're here too," he admitted.


A waiter entered the kitchen with a tray of drinks from the bar. Frederick took them both and handed one to Russell.


"Here's mud in your eye!" Frederick toasted and took a drink. Russell followed suit cautiously.


"How long have they been here waiting for me?" asked Russell when he had worked enough moisture back into his mouth.


"About a week, two weeks later than they expected."


Russell flinched, but not from Mrs. Harville's tender ministrations. "That's too long. They must have run into more trouble on the way here," he reasoned quietly and nursed his drink.


"Let Mrs. Harville finish cleaning you up and I'll have someone show you to your room."


Frederick drained his glass and Russell did the same in an incongruous show of friendship. Frederick then turned to go.


Anne was standing in the doorway, her eyes bright with unshed tears for her brother. "Russell!" was all she said.


"Anne." His voice was warm, much like it used to be. Heedless of Mrs. Harville's warnings, he got up to greet her.


His body moved along a parabolic arc. First he raised himself up to a standing height. Just before he reached the apex, however, he realized he couldn't maintain it. The fuse, lit by the exertions of his journey and accelerated by the whisky, finally burned out. He lost consciousness on the way down, and his body hit the floor with a satisfying thud.


Anne did not display hysterics. She had always been sensible and practical, and time had yet to dent those qualities. She emitted a small exclamation of surprise and fear as she rushed to her brother's body and turned it over to check his breathing. Harville's wife was equally quick and, between the two of them, they were able to confirm that Russell Elliot was alive and as well as possible given the circumstances.


Frederick just laughed. That a man who had taken on mythic proportions in his imagination could be felled without Frederick even applying a single blow... Well, it was funny.


Anne did not see the humor in the situation. The look she shot at Frederick would have been at home on Elizabeth's face. "What did you do to him?" she accused.


Frederick shook his head. "Nothing but the local custom of welcome. Croft did the same to me when I first showed up. He'll be fine when he wakes up in a day or two."


"He's out cold?" Now her voice rose appreciably. "For a whole day?"


"I slept for two solid days," he told her. "Ole Russell looks as bad as I did, so my money's on two."


"We have to wake him up. We have to leave as soon as possible." Anne began to tap Russell's cheeks and to coax him awake.


"Anne, where are you going?" He tried to be kind. "How do you think you're going to get there? If you're headed to Marrakech, you're not leaving until Thursday morning. If you're trying to get back to Egypt, you're stuck until the fighting dies down. Let the man rest. He's been through enough for now."


His words had some effect. Anne stopped trying to wake her brother and began to go through his pockets. She issued questions to Mrs. Harville to identify any luggage Russell had brought with him, but the other woman told her there was none.


Frederick had gone through the same purge himself on his trek here. Suitcases were the first to go. He packed only what he knew he needed -- food and water -- into a satchel he could carry on his back. But those supplies only lasted so long, and so even the satchel was discarded in time.


Anne discovered a traveller’s money belt under Russell’s shirt. She removed a heavily creased set of papers and examined them intently. There was a coldness to her practicality that mesmerised. Satisfied with what she had found, she looked up at Frederick. “These need to go into your safe immediately,” she said.


“I’ll be back for my brother in a moment,” she informed Mrs. Harville as she stood and stepped over her brother’s supine form. “Just as soon as I see these papers put away.”


“You’re just going to leave him here?” Frederick asked. He had expected her to show more care.


“You told me he’s going to be out cold for the next 48 hours. If anyone else gets ahold of these papers, he might as well not wake up. Come on, Freddy, let’s go.”


She left the kitchen and moved through the crowd like a person avoiding attention: ducking, swerving, hiding, until she reached his office. Once there, she was almost impatient to have him go through his routine of locking the door before unlocking the safe. She put the papers into the box for room 4 and sighed in relief as the door swung shut again.


“Those are your travel papers?” Frederick asked, curious in spite of himself.


“Among other things,” she conceded. “I can’t tell you more than that. Just promise me you won’t look at them.”


“What makes you think that promises between the two of us mean anything?”


The question wounded her, and she made no response. As soon as she could, she returned to the kitchen. Mrs. Harville gave two waiters leave to carry Mr. Elliot upstairs, and Anne directed them to Mr. Wilkes room. She then sent word discretely to her fiancé who joined her upstairs and they were not seen again until Sunday afternoon.


On Monday, Russell woke with his sister and friend keeping vigil over him. He was weak and sore but much improved over when he had first stumbled into The American’s kitchen. They shared their stories and conferred. The end result was that Wilkes would speak to Hemmert again about the wedding as soon as possible, and they would leave on the supply plane on Thursday.


As soon as possible was always a relative term. Hemmert could not possibly accommodate them so late on Monday. Tuesday was a much better day for him. In the afternoon was preferred by Mrs. Croft who had indeed offered to host the reception and still needed time to roll more paper roses for the bride’s bouquet.


Frederick was unaware of all this. He had adjusted himself to Anne being there, hidden in the background, tending to her brother and generally staying out of sight, so that when he didn’t see her on Tuesday, there was no suspicion that she might be doing something of importance.


Lulu strolled in on Tuesday and told him she might be late for her set that evening. “Mlle Elliot invited me to the wedding luncheon at the Crofts and I'm not sure when I'll be back. It must be awful when a younger sister marries first."


Frederick took it in. "Today?" he asked, disbelieving.


"They leave Thursday," she said as if that explained everything.


"Be on time," he said at last. "And stay sober."


"I'll try to watch the clock," she almost promised, refusing to address the second concern. With a breezy, "merci patron," she was gone.


Frederick shuffled some papers for a moment then got up to go in search of his piano player. The man needed forewarning that Lulu was going to be late and drunk for her set. However, before he got out of his office, Hemmert found him.


"Herr Wentworth," he began, "I come to you again for assistance. You pride yourself on being fair; well, listen to my evidence and determine if you will help me bring Wilkes to justice."


"Come now, Hemmert. You know I strive for impartiality, not fairness."


"Wilkes is a criminal!" Hemmert raised his voice passionately. "He is a Jew, and worse, much worse beyond that. He is a spy against Germany, and he has been seduced by the Elliots to divulge his knowledge to England in exchange for asylum. The proof is right behind you, in your safe. Let me show it to you!"


"I am not going to open the safe for you," Frederick said firmly. "It is for myself and the guests of The American."


"Then let me rent a room tonight," Hemmert suggested in a stroke of inspiration. "The most expensive one you have. I will need to keep my pistol in the safe, of course. And you could get distracted while we were locking it up--"


"No."


"Or the evidence could accidentally fall to the floor and while I helped you put it back--"


"No," Frederick repeated with thinly veiled annoyance.


Hemmert was growing increasingly desperate, increasingly aggravated . "I have a warrant arriving on Thursday for Herr und Frau Wilkes, as well for Herr und Fräulien Elliot. I only need the evidence to detain them until then.  It is a forgone conclusion that Guillaume Wilkes is a traitor and Russell Elliot is a spy. There is a firing squad waiting for both of them, if only I can lay my hands on them."


It was a long speech, but Frederick had only half taken it in upon hearing Herr und Frau. And so she had done it. She had finally married someone her brother approved of, someone handpicked for his strategic advantage.


Frederick had a sister, married to a sailor, back in Virginia. He hadn't seen her in years but they still exchanged letters at Christmas. Frederick thought they got on well as far as brothers and sisters went, but the relationship between Anne and Russell took the cake; the sacrifices she made for her brother were far out of bounds from what any brother had a right to hope for. There must be some key behind her submission to explain it all, but it was not normal.


He should pity her, but he pitied himself more. He never really had a chance with her, not with her brother calling the shots.


"I am not letting you into this safe," he said.


Hemmert stood up and drew his pistol. "What about now?" he asked as he aiming the barrel at Frederick. "No one can blame you." While the German was never seen without his gun at his side, Frederick had never heard of him actually firing it. At this distance, however, aim didn't matter much.


"No," Frederick repeated holding his hands up.


"If you won't do it for me, do it for Wilkes' bride," pleaded Hemmert. "I can tell there is something between you. Save her from the fate that awaits her when news of their wedding gets out. She will be as bad as a Jew herself. Her sex will not preserve her from capture, or torture or death in our camps. In fact, her treatment will no doubt be worse because she willingly chose to marry such a man." He had walked around the desk during this speech so that he was close enough now to touch the safe. "All you have to do is open it, and I'll let you keep the woman -- both women!"


Both was hardly an inducement. Elizabeth was the sort of woman that any man would be sorry to end up with. And as for Anne, he would have walked through fire for her once. But she had chosen Russell over him, and would doubtlessly hate Frederick forever for handing her brother and husband over to the Gestapo.


"No thanks," he refused.


"Heaven preserve me from a fool with principles!" Hemmert cursed. "Now open the safe!"


The man was at the end of his tether. He was fixated on getting into the safe. He didn't seem to realize that preventing the foursome from accessing their passports and papers inside was probably just as effective as confiscating them. Given the implied importance of the documents Anne had removed from Russell on Saturday, they couldn't leave without them.


Frederick was the only one who knew the combination. Without him, the others were effectively trapped here, but pointing that out to Hemmert wasn’t a wise idea. If Hemmert realized that shooting Frederick was the surest way to prevent Anne and the rest of them from going anywhere, it might tip the balance.


Refusing now was suicide but surprisingly easy. Frederick stood, his hands still up in front of him. "Bitte, Hemmert, I can't."


Before he could shut his eyes, his world went black.