Mr. Pratt's Frenemy

“You will meet a tall, dark stranger,” declared the sweaty, scraggly-looking woman seated on the opposing side of a large crystal ball.

A common opening to a psychic reading, was altogether an interesting revelation to Mr. Anthony Pratt. A statement usually addressed to the female persuasion of humanity, had been planted dead centre into the lap of post-war Britain’s most infamous Nazi hunter.

“Perhaps you need to address my wife,” Pratt corrected

“Darling,” Elva Pratt interjected. “Let her finish.”

“Please excuse me, Madame Luger,” Pratt apologetically submitted. “It’s not often I forget my manners. Do go on.”

“Zat is au naturel, mon ami,” explained the fortune teller in an over-the-top French accent. “It is not offen, I am wrong, so please take heed. You are about to ask probing questions that may result in perilous answers. This man you seek possesses secrets that will be protected with the utmost aggression. He must not be apprehended. It could leave you exposed and in danger.”

“I’m sorry, darling. Did she just say you are in danger, or you are at risk of being naked… or both?”

Elva Pratt’s ears had pricked up on the verbal warning. No stranger to the perils of her husband’s clandestine career, she remained protective of him, and in all sincerity, hoped his modesty would remain uncompromised – even though there was a large slice of flippancy in her tone of voice.

“I believe Madame Luger is privy to some sensitive information, my love,” stated Pratt tenderly. “…An interesting turn of events.”

“Perhaps you should sit where I sit, Monsieur. You have the gift of astuteness. A great asset in my line of work.”

The calculating fortune teller flashed a devious smile in Pratt’s direction. Unmoved, Britain’s clandestine member of Winston Churchill’s quest for war crimes retribution sat calmly studying the eyes of the extraordinarily odd Sage of Sarlat sitting smugly opposite him. ‘This cat and mouse game may throw up a few surprises,’ thought Pratt. ‘Best to remove Elva from the equation.’

“Elva, my love. Would you excuse us for ten minutes? I sense there is something else that Madame Luger wishes to say to me in private.”

“Curious… Are you sure, Darling?”

“Tell Jenkins – our driver - that there is an unexpected delay. Have him return for me in ten minutes.”

“Very well. I will toddle off and try to find me a nice French cafe that serves English tea.”

Sitting inside a fortune teller’s parlour was not something Anthony Pratt would normally wile an afternoon away in pursuit of mind-numbing entertainment. Whatever Pratt did that seemed out of the ordinary, was most definitely of his own accord, and most assuredly, his attendance at a reading of fortune was indeed without any outside intervention.

Bidding Madame Luger a good day, Elva extricated herself from the lavishly adorned tent. Resembling a desert Bedouin’s harem, the tent’s interior was divided into discreet sections by hanging tapestries depicting scenes reminiscent of the book of kells – the famous medieval illuminated manuscripts that depicted the four gospels of the New Testament. These giant hanging rugs added an array of warm, vibrant colour to what would normally be a drab, beige surrounding. Why such a big space for an intimate setting existed, was a mystery to Pratt and beyond his interest, as more pressing matters held his attention.

“So… we are now two, Agent Pratt… The crystal ball exposes you… Actually, we get the English newspapers over here, and I read a recent article about your trip to Columbia.”

“Oh that... Bit of wild goose chase, I’m afraid…”

“Nevertheless, your reputation precedes you.”

“Then, let’s get down to business. You can invite your two goons hiding behind that tapestry of Christ Enthroned over there to join us…”

I see you are familiar with the works of Columban Monks. I had them weaved personally for me by the same Bedouins that sold me this roomy tent. Beautiful, yes?”

“Did they also sell you those size 14 shoes and the muddied set of boots – which I would hazard a guess at a size 9…?”

“Merely a precautionary measure, Agent Pratt.”

Madame Luger clicked her fingers and motioned for the shoes to move. Two burly men, thug-like in appearance, sheepishly shuffled over and stood intimidatingly behind Pratt. Their comical attempt to hide themselves was accentuated further by the mere difference in height between them. In fact, from Pratt’s sitting position, one seemed twice the height of the other.

“They’re just big teddy bears, really. Hired mainly to oversee some of the games you may have seen on your way here.”

“Ah, yes. Fools and their money soon parted, and all that...”

“People need to make a living, nest-ce pas?”

“My dear Madame Luger, carnival games are designed solely on the premise of losing. Those that do win the odd stuffed bear or plastic-housed goldfish, only encourage others to play in the hope of winning a prize. The winners are only celebrated so as to entice others to try their luck. What most unsuspecting folks don’t realise is that those that win at carnivals are at the behest of the management, whose doctrine is Sacrifice small, steal large.”

“I didn’t realise you were such an expert on our way of life, Agent Pratt.”

“It’s an old strategy… Most travelling preachers in the USA adopted it as an easy way to fill their pockets with gold from the lost souls that sought enlightenment. Their sales pitch was ‘In order to receive from God, you must first give to him.’ What better offering than cold, hard cash. ‘Reap and you shall sow,’ was the message.”

“But this isn’t the bible belt of America’s Midwest, Agent Pratt. This is the town of Sarlat La Caneda – near to where the English and French fought the well-documented one-hundred-years-war in the late Middle Ages. Most people here don’t seek divineness, they just want a better future.”

Situated in one of France’s most beautiful areas, the Dordogne saw fierce fighting during World War 2. Ten years after the fall of the Third Reich, very few Nazis remained. Those that did were deserters that could not return home, or soldiers accepted as part of the local population, paying a penance by working the land. What interested Anthony Pratt in this region was the pursuit of a local collaborator, who had treacherously identified resistance fighters to the Nazis, leading to their summary executions. A very powerful landowner before the war was suspected to have returned with a protective entourage made up from criminals and ex-prison camp guards, and once again, Pratt was on a fact-finding mission.

“I need information, for which I will pay handsomely.”

“Good information always comes at a price, Agent Pratt.”

Producing two large gold bars from his satchel, Pratt unintentionally slammed them onto the table, causing the crystal ball to vibrate for several moments.

“Be careful, Agent Pratt. You don’t want to shake up your future now, n’est-ce pas?”

“You intrigue me, Madame Luger – if that is indeed your real name.”

“…The crystal ball says, he who you think you seek is no more. You will be very disappointed to hear the truth.”

“Truth is liberating, so let’s start with who you really are…”

During their conversation, Pratt’s eyes had involuntarily focussed on the bulge in Madame Luger’s throat as she spoke. What appeared to be an Adams Apple, Pratt had politely ignored, but now, it was a growing focus of attention.

“I shall tell you a story, Agent Pratt. It is a story of love and a story of hate… I didn’t always look like this… The scar you see on my left cheek is a mark of frontline service. What is not apparent are the other scars endured from a grenade exploding at close quarters, removing a cherished young manhood. I survived the attack, many did not; however, my only option for any chance at a normal life was to bat for the other side – I think you call it… I am considerably younger than my looks. This fairground masquerade is all cosmetically applied - courtesy of a young Mademoiselle training as an undertaker.”

Pratt allowed a compassionate grimace to stretch across his cheeks, as a wave of illuminating empathy rolled over his emotions.

“…Tell me about Monsieur Claude Huber,” Pratt softly asked.

“You are truly perceptive, oui…? Claude Huber is a ghost to you Agent Pratt. As much an apparition in my crystal ball as fog is to air… He was genuinely a very misunderstood man. What some have called a traitor, others eventually will realise he was a true patriot with a deep love for his beloved Français.”

“He was responsible for the execution of many of his fellow countrymen. What is so patriotic about that?”

“For every one hero of France shot, ten were spared… and of each one of those ten slew hundreds more of the enemy.”

“Forgive me, Madame Luger. You’re saying that Claude Huber was acting as a double agent?”

“Precisely, Monsieur Pratt. Nothing you are unaccustomed to in your line of work, I believe. Monsieur Huber’s sacrificial decisions were not easy. His conscience tormented; he fled the area right after the end of the war… To become a hated man amongst your own neighbours and friends – where any mention of his family name precedes a mouthful of spit propelled to the ground, is a heavy burden of shame for anyone to carry. Not one day passes without regret; however, what I did was for the glory of my country. Decisions like mine are often made by heads of state in the time of war. Should your very own Churchill also be castigated for sending young men to their slaughter on the beaches of Northern France? Perhaps in fifty years’ time - when top secret papers become unclassified and released to the public domain, Claude Huber might be posthumously awarded the Legion of Honour for his bravery.”

The emotional revelation concluded; Madame Luger decided to offer her proof of burden.

“…Under your seat, is taped an envelope containing official documentation supporting everything... I knew that someone like you would one day come asking questions.”

Pratt fumbled with the underside of his seat and produced an envelope that had been lightly taped to it. Opening it, he briefly thumbed through the small stack of typed papers. Then, a certified page caught his eye. It was a medical report on Claude Huber, detailing severe injuries sustained from a grenade attack. ‘Inoperable,’ its prognosis described. ‘Patient has considered suggested options and agreed a transgender alternative to be the best choice in order to maintain a healthy mental state going forward. An advanced payment of 40,000 Francs has secured the services of the most experienced surgeon in Paris.’

Engrossed in the information now splayed out on the table in front of him, Pratt did not see Madame Luger rise from her chair, until she towered over him with a pistol in her hand.

“You now possess the truth and the consequences. I will not allow myself to be subjected to any further public shame. My men will show you out.”

Pratt was unsure of his next move. So, he decided to lay all his cards on the table, and he wasn’t even sure what he was going to say, so he just spoke from a heartfelt perspective.

“Before I go, would you like to know what I see in your crystal ball?... “

“Please… be my guest, Agent Pratt…”

“I see reflections… images of abstract light, beaming one way then another – all at the same time.”

“Interesting… Do they speak to you?”

“…They do.”

“…And what do they tell you?”

“Time, they say, heals all wounds; however, this particular deep wound has festered for far too long. A cry for forgiveness must be heard and acknowledged. Let those that judge be the ones without sins of their own, for a person should be measured on who they are now and not who they were when once staring into an evil abyss.”

Intently listening to every word, Madame Luger stood quietly contemplating the approaching outcome to the outset of this dissection of her life. An outpouring of straightforwardness from both parties offered very little in the way of resolution. However, the ball was in Pratt’s court and Madame Luger wondered how he would play it.

“Merci, Monsieur Pratt. The crystal ball does indeed talk to you… You know, I still see all their faces in my dreams and in every waking moment of my life. Ghostly figures calling out to me, demanding to be heard. The dead somehow found a way to speak to me, wanting me to connect them with the living. I quickly discovered that I could help both sides find closure, allowing space to move on. So, each summer for the past nine summers, our little troupe returns here to connect the living with the dead, to pass on messages from both sides. It brings great comfort to all… Do you believe in spirits, Monsieur Pratt?”

“…Nothing I’ve seen in the madness of living has yet presented evidence of life beyond the only one we know of.”

“Perhaps you should widen your horizons and open your eyes, Monsieur Pratt. Hear the spirit world talk to you.”

“What I’m hearing at this moment, Madame Luger, is your reluctance for your real identity to be discovered.”

“Understandably so, Oui?”

“What if I told you that I was taking you back to London to face trial for being a war criminal?”

“I would say my fate would already be decided.”

Pratt hesitated. This was a moral dilemma never faced before. Madame Luger’s tragic story had moved him, and a surprising sense of admiration pulsed through his thoughts. However, Pratt had a mission to complete and that presented him with a difficult conundrum. Was he to be judge and executioner – metaphorically speaking, or should he show compassion to this sad creature stood before him? All Pratt could see was a lost soul who chose a difficult path to follow and paid a heavy price – both physically and mentally. Was there any reason for her to suffer more?

Before anyone made an irreversible move, Elva burst back into the tent, surprising the two bodyguards, who quickly spun around to block her progress.

“Anthony Darling, I must insist we end our visit here. I’ve just bumped into the town’s mayor and when I told him of your visit to Sarlat, he insisted that Britain’s most famous Nazi hunter come for dinner… I couldn’t disappoint him. He was very insistent… Who are these handsome gentlemen?”

“Henri and Michel, my love. Friends of Madame…”

Momentarily distracted, Pratt had turned to greet his wife. Turning back to assess the situation with Madame Luger, he was greeted by empty space. Even the crystal ball had vanished into thin air. To Pratt’s surprise and delight, the two gold bars remained on the table. ‘Information,’ he mused, ‘had only one price… the truth.’

Spotting a gap, Elva pushed her way through the bodyguards and joined Anthony, who was reviewing the envelopes’ documents.

“Was it a fruitful meeting, Darling?”

“…Enlightening… to say the least.”

“Did you get the information you needed?”

“More than I could have expected.”

“Then good! Let’s be off. Jenkins is outside awaiting instructions – curiously holding a pistol… My goodness, where did Henri and Michel disappear to?”

Without answering, Pratt took a moment to listen to the silence – hoping to hear the spirit world telling him what to do next.

“Winston will be pleased you found what you were looking for… what was it by the way?”

“Not what, Elva… Who…”

“…Madame Luger?”

“Yes… an intriguing and sad story of betrayal, regret, and a lifelong yearning for redemption… What was… can never be again. What is… can only hope for forgiveness…”

“Sounds like an interesting story, Darling. How about telling me on the way to dinner with the mayor?”

“Not tonight, Elva. One day, I will - when this piece of history becomes unclassified…”

***

The unofficial report to Downing Street, described another goose chase. It concluded that Claude Huber had vanished, presumed dead. The official report labelled as Top Secret, was filed under the Official Secrets Act to be opened for public scrutiny in fifty years’ time. Madame Luger never returned to Sarlat; however, reports of a Sister Luger at a local convent in a nearby village, who helped the mentally ill, were monitored by Anthony Pratt for several years until news of her death crossed his desk. Upon reading the report, Pratt paid a tender homage to her.

“May you now be returned home to the embrace of your people…”