VILLA MIMOSA a gripping WW2 literary fiction tale by Jerrard Tickell

Author:Jerrard Tickell [Tickell, Jerrard]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Lume Books Historical Literary Fiction
Published: 2023-07-26T04:00:00+00:00

Chapter 11

Friday, 26th February, 1944

Colonel Rupprecht, nicknamed ‘Johnny’, had been a close friend of Rommel. That was long ago, centuries ago. The Field-Marshal — who was himself suspect — could be of no help at all to Johnny in his present predicament.

He sat shivering in what had been a servant’s bedroom in 84 Avenue Foch, Paris. It was a commodious and elegant house and the Gestapo, whose Headquarters it was, treated the lower floors of the building with respect. They had less respect for the servants’ bedrooms and for those whom they housed there.

It had happened on Sunday last. Five days ago. Five endless days and five endless nights.

Colonel Johnny had been to a conference at La Roche-Guyon with his friend Field-Marshal Rommel. The meeting had broken up early and, blithely unaware that his car was being followed, he had driven into Paris and, as usual, stopped off for a champagne cocktail in the Crillon Bar. There he had been joined by a genial stranger, an officer of Colonel Johnny’s own rank, who insisted on paying for a second champagne cocktail. He had introduced himself formally with a bow as ‘Otto’, and suggested another drink at the Ritz Bar where, he said, his wife was awaiting him. Colonel Johnny was in no hurry. Paris and the bars of Paris were a great deal more to his taste than the austere bistros of Coville.

“We can go in my car,” said the genial Colonel Otto, “and my driver can take you back here in half an hour to pick up your own car.”

“Splendid,” said Colonel Johnny. “Allons-y.”

Gaily they went out together into the Place de la Concorde and Colonel Johnny was a little surprised to find himself sitting between two hard-faced men in black raincoats. He was even more surprised to feel a Lueger pistol pressing against his ribs — and was sick with fear by the time the car stopped outside a tall, elegant and closely guarded building in the Avenue Foch.

His own driver who had taken him in a drunken moment to the Villa Mimosa had talked. The ubiquitous Gestapo had listened. It had been as simple as that. Kinderspiel. Child’s play.

His tunic had been stripped of its badges of rank, stripped of all that Colonel Johnny had earned since the war began. Then, locked in what had been a servant’s bedroom, they had begun to ask questions about the Villa Mimosa. Who was Madame? What were the girls’ names? What were the names of the debauched officers who frequented this… this filthy bordel, this flagrant insult to the dedicated, celibate Führer? What subjects did these libertines discuss among themselves — and with which women?

He told them that he knew nothing of Madame — nor did he remember the names of the girls. He said that the officers who went there were strangers to him. He could not remember any particular subject of discussion.

To stimulate his memory, they laid him face downwards on a sofa and beat him on the nape of the neck with a rubber truncheon until he was senseless.

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