Red Rainbow G Johanson (i am malala young readers edition .txt) 📖

they felt for him as kin was amplified too much – it was not normal to be the extended family lynchpin at seven years old.

If only it had never been this way. That way, all of his achievements would be on his own merit, his failures too. Now he couldn’t even wish it away. That was one of his fears, that the collective brain fog could clear and they’d all see him for the unremarkable man that he was. They would instantly hate him for having thought so highly of him.

Even the school bullies loved him. One used to beat up other kids to try and impress him before César convinced him not to. They were talking bad about you. Bullshit. Their targets were just as gooey-eyed as the bullies.

He should never have accepted all of the promotions. The first position he held at Escolico, general office clerk, was adequate. The sales team was where he really shone, his ability making him the perfect salesman. Whatever he was selling, they were buying. Yes, St Agnes’ Convent will take the truckload of contraceptive sheaths. An exaggeration, but he could probably make it reality. The travelling aspect of the job was enjoyable even if he did feel like he was exploiting his customers’ desire to please him. To offset these feelings, César made sure that he negotiated a good deal for both parties, his company and his customers.

César could have stuck to field sales only they kept recommending him for promotions, the lure of more money and all that that could bring too appealing. He leapfrogged upwards, sometimes without even an interview. The interviews he did have were merely formalities. The die was always loaded in his favour, and while it was not by his design, he took full advantage. It made his family proud – and triggered recurring fleeting feelings of shame in him, shame he experienced in opulent comfort.

That comfort would be something to think on now that he faced his biggest test. He’d tidied up the house, he’d changed clothes twice. Waiting for them to come and arrest him was torture worse than anything they would put him through. This was the riskiest part of his plan, where things could go wrong. He’d calm down once he was in custody, it was just this initial contact that troubled him. All it would take would be one shaky finger from a nervous teenage soldier as they came in all guns blazing and BANG! no more false idol. The funeral could go one of two ways. It could be the national (or at least municipal) mourning that Florence suggested in jest, women clad in black turning up at his tomb with a red rose every month. No, every day. Or... or they would be freed from the spell he’d never meant to put on them, resulting in a listless ceremony with dry eyes all round. The former suited him more, but it could wait. He’d keep his hands where they could see them, though hopefully they’d be gazing at his face and falling into line. He was banking everything on the Germans being putty in his hands – and on the Allies liberating France soon. Within the next few weeks would be ideal. Could he delay the Nazi vengeance if this went to the end of the year? He hoped he’d not have to find out.

The Gestapo had multiple first-hand sightings of Florence Pascoe reported on the same night. There were also a number of second-hand reports too; these were more interesting. Those who had seen her with their own eyes saw her on the move getting from a to b and then back again. B was established as the Timbre Hearts nightclub. That was where she’d been seen by people who didn’t know who she was, none of whom came forward. Word filtered back to the Gestapo due to the people in attendance, patrons and staff, reporting back to their contacts about the state of the woman César Vadeboncoeur had been seen dining with. Those contacts had put the pieces together and realised who she was.

Kretschmer hadn’t appointed any of them in particular to be in charge of the investigation during his absence. The plan was that he would stay in touch by phone or telegram, technology willing, leading where necessary. Willi Gehring tried to phone him but was unable to get through to share this new information. They had a new area to search, it seeming likely that the district she was first and last sighted in on Friday evening was point a. Gehring chose to take charge of this aspect of proceedings. His equal, Heinz Strohkirch, would bring Vadeboncoeur in to explain himself. He would not be able to pass this off as a chance encounter at the club. The meeting was clearly planned. He had arrived an hour before her and had waited to order ’til she came, declining offers from other diners to sit with them.

Vadeboncoeur was a potential big scalp, the national manager of Escolico Ltd, a manufacturer of carbonated beverages across much of Western mainland Europe. He only answered to the worldwide head as well as the owners, Claude Escoffier and the Selico family. And now he would answer to every member of the Gestapo too. Gehring intended to be involved in his interrogation, but there was no rush. Strohkirch was not likely to rough him up at this early stage, depending on what he found at his home. Gehring had enough time to lead a squad of his men in a thorough search of a large number of properties assisted by a score of the Milice. An informer in the area was able to guide them as to the most likely partisan residents or the unknowns. The French took the intrusion into their homes without too much backchat, the Milice only breaking one nose in the process. Stolid death stares were acceptable, as was dumb insolence providing they complied with the searches.

They got