As Time Goes By

by Michael Walsh

Genres: Media Tie-In

Synopsis

A daring journey of adventure, courage & romance, traversing the world from Casablanca to Lisbon to New York to London to Prague & then Paris, expanding & intensifying the classic movie Casablanca.

Release date: November 15, 2008

Publisher: Grand Central Publishing

Print pages: 432

Sample

PREFACE

MOVIETONE NEWS FOR DECEMBER 7, 1941

(cue martial music)

EUROPE REELS BEFORE THE HUN!

BRITONS HUNKER IN BUNKERS AS BOMBS FALL!

HITLER MASTER OF ALL HE SURVEYS:

CAN ANYONE STOP HIM?

(cue voice-over)

War! From the Sahara to the steppes of central Asia, Europe is on fire. Directed from Berlin, Adolf Hitler's legions have overrun Poland, Denmark, Norway, the Low Countries, and France; driven deep into the Soviet Union; and carved off the top of North Africa. Wehrmacht troops shell Moscow and strut down the Champs-Élyse´es, while nightly the Luftwaffe sets the docks of London ablaze and deadly Nazi U-boats turn the shipping lanes of the North Atlantic into a watery graveyard.

Suffering Europe casts its eyes to heaven, with one question on its lips: Can anyone stop the Germans?

Brave men and women are trying. Across occupied Europe resistance movements have sprung up. From his headquarters in Brazzaville, General Charles De Gaulle is leading a rearguard action against the Nazi beast in la belle France. In the teeth of Goering's bombers, Czech and Norwegian patriots have regrouped in London and plot acts of violence and retribution against the usurpers of their homelands. Whether by political action, or outright sabotage and terror, resistance is growing daily.

But the Wehrmacht's seemingly inexorable march across the European continent has meant dislocation for millions. A Refugee Trail has sprung up: Paris to Marseille—across the Mediterranean to Oran—then by train—or auto—or foot—across the rim of Africa to French Morocco, and finally here, to Casablanca.

Casablanca! Its very name evokes magic and mystery. A windswept place, trapped between ocean and desert, where anything can happen—and does, every day. Where human beings sell one another like cattle or sheep. Where gold is cheap, jewelry is worthless, and the only thing of value is an exit visa. Where the plane to Lisbon is a minor deity and the Clipper to America is God Himself. A place where desperation rules, uncertainty is king, and the cast of a die—or the turn of a card, or the spin of a roulette wheel—can mean the difference between life and death. A place where Spaniard huddles with Frenchman, where Russian drinks with Englishman, where expatriate American matches wits with German. Casablanca, which holds your life in the palm of its hand, and asks only: What is it worth to you?

Safe behind its two wide oceans, neutral America looks on. How much longer?

THIS IS CASEY ROBINSON REPORTING FROM CASABLANCA

(bursts of static)

(sounds of French police radio being tuned in)

8:00 P.M.Attention, attention! All units: Czech resistance leader Victor Laszlo, wanted by the Gestapo for crimes against the Third Reich, has escaped on the Lisbon plane. He is using the letters of transit stolen from German couriers murdered on the train from Oran three days ago.

8:10 P.M.Attention, attention! Major Heinrich Strasser of the Gestapo has been shot at the Casablanca airport! Round up the usual suspects, on orders of Captain Louis Renault, Prefect of Police.

8:25 P.M.All units: Major Strasser has died of his wounds en route to the hospital. Captain Renault, come in, please. Calling Captain Renault. Where are you?

8:35 P.M.Attention, all units: Louis Renault has disappeared. Last seen in the company of M. Richard Blaine, owner of Rick's CafÉ Americain. Has possibly met with foul play. Arrest M. Blaine at once. He is armed and extremely dangerous. Beware!

8:45 P.M.Attention, all units: Captain Renault spotted walking with Rick Blaine on the outskirts of the airport. They are to be apprehended at once. Possibly heading for the Free French garrison in Brazzaville. Block all roads to the south immediately.

8:46 P.M.Attention, attention: The German Consul, Herr Heinze, reports that Gestapo headquarters has dispatched agents to intercept the fugitives. Matters are now in the hands of the Germans. That is all.

(radio off)

CHAPTER ONE

The Lisbon plane soared away from the dense, swirling fog of Casablanca, up and into the night. Below, the airport was plunged deep into the North African darkness, its only illumination the revolving beacon that perched atop the conning tower. The sirens of the French colonial police cars had faded into the night. Everything was quiet but the wind.

Almost lost in the mist, two men were walking together, away from the airport, away from the city, and into an uncertain future.

“… of a beautiful friendship,” said Richard Blaine, tugging on a cigarette as he walked. His hat was pulled down low on his forehead, and his trench coat was cinched tightly against the damp. Rick felt calmer than he had in years. In fact, he tried to remember when he had felt this certain of what he had just done, and what he was about to do.

The shorter man walking beside him nodded. “Well, my friend, Victor Laszlo and Ilsa Lund are on their way to Lisbon,” said Louis Renault. “I might have known you'd mix your newfound patriotism with a little larceny.” He fished in his pocket and came up with ten thousand francs.

“That must have been very difficult for you, Ricky,” he said. “Miss Lund is an extremely beautiful woman. I don't know that I should have been so gallant, even with money at stake.”

“I guess that's the difference between me and you, Louie,” Rick replied.

Ilsa Lund! Had it been only two days ago that she had walked back into his life? It seemed like a year. How could a woman change a man's fate so much so fast? Now his duty was to follow that fate, no matter where it might lead him.

“Anyway, you were gallant enough not to have me arrested, even though I’d just given the letters of transit to the most wanted man in the Third Reich and shot a Gestapo officer. By rights I ought to be in your hoosegow, getting ready to face a firing squad. Why the sudden change of heart? I never let you win that much at roulette.”

The little man, smart and well turned out in his black colonial policeman's uniform, trod so softly beside Rick Blaine that even in the stillness his footfalls were inaudible. Over the years, Louis Renault had found it preferable to leave as little a mark on his surroundings as possible.

“I don't know,” Renault replied. “Maybe it's because I like you. Maybe it's because I didn't like the late Heinrich Strasser. Maybe it's because you've cheated me out of the favors of two lovely ladies who were in dire need of my services in obtaining exit visas, and I insist on proper retribution. Maybe it's because you won our bet, and I’d like a chance to get my money back.”

“And maybe it's because you're cheap,” said Rick. “What difference does it make? You lost, fair and square.” He finished his cigarette and sent the glowing butt sparking across the tarmac. He searched the sky, but her plane was long gone. “So did I.”

Abruptly, Renault halted and grabbed Rick by the arm. “I was right: you are a rank sentimentalist,” he exclaimed. “You're still in love with her, aren't you?”

“Why don't you mind your own business?” retorted Rick.

“This is my business—indeed, my two favorite businesses: money and women,” answered Renault. “A less charitable man than I might claim he'd been cheated. You knew all along that you were going to give those letters of transit to Victor Laszlo and his wife. I wouldn't be at all surprised if the lady knew it, too.”

“It's hard to know what women know, isn't it?” Rick replied, starting to walk again and picking up the pace. “It's even harder to know how they know it before we do.”

Their path was taking them deeper into the darkness. “Where are we going, if you don't mind my asking?” asked Renault. His complicity in the death of Major Strasser was so spontaneous that he had little more than the clothes on his back and the francs in his wallet. He hoped his friend knew what he was doing. “If we really want to go to the Free French garrison at Brazzaville, we'd better think about commandeering a transport flight out before the Germans wake up. It's a long way to the Congo—three thousand miles, at least.”

Rick scuffed the ground with his shoe. “Forget Brazzaville. I’ve got a better use for your money.” His eyes stabbed the darkness. There it was! In the distance, he could make out the dimly defined shape of a large automobile parked at the far end of the airfield. Sacha and Sam, right in place and right on time.

Louis nodded appreciatively as Rick's Buick 81C convertible came more clearly into view. He tugged at his kepi and smoothed down his dark uniform. In Renault's opinion, to look anything other than one's best ill suited a Frenchman. Especially a newly Free Frenchman. Especially a really free Frenchman. “You leave nothing to chance, do you? Tell me, did you plan to kill Major Strasser all along, or was that just inspired improvisation?”

“Let's just say I got lucky when he drew first,” replied Rick, opening the automobile's back door and climbing in.

“Where did you learn to handle a gun like that, if you don't mind my asking? One might think you had some wartime experience.”

“I was in a lot of little wars around New York,” said Rick.

“You weren't really going to shoot me back there, were you, Ricky?”

“Not if you didn't make me,” replied Rick. “I try not to make a habit of killing my friends. I don't always succeed.”

“Everything okay, Mister Rick?” Sam inquired anxiously from the driver's seat.

“Everything's just ducky,” said Rick. “Now step on it. We've got to make Port Lyautey before daybreak.”

“Right, boss,” said Sam, and floored it.

Port Lyautey, north of Rabat, was about two hundred miles away. Founded by the French in 1912 when they established the protectorate, the city on the Sebou River was a major transportation hub, with a seaport at Mehdia, a railroad, and, best of all, an airfield. Come hell or high water, they were going to follow Victor Laszlo and Ilsa Lund to Lisbon.

Unfortunately, each and every one of those two hundred miles was bad road. Well, that's why God built Buicks and charged so much for them, thought Rick: shipped over from the States and smuggled into Casablanca, his had cost more than $2,000.

Sam Waters hit the accelerator so hard, Rick and Louis were thrust back into the leather rear seats as if they were in an airplane. In the front passenger seat, Sacha Yurchenko laughed and fondled the .38 Smith & Wesson that Rick had given him as a bonus the year before.

“You want I should shoot him, boss?” shouted Sacha, the big Russian bartender at Rick's place. Except for Yvonne, the girlfriend he had inherited from Rick, Sacha didn't much like the French. In truth, Sacha didn't much like anybody, and the feeling was mutual.

“Not yet,” said Rick. “Maybe later. Maybe never. It all depends.”

“Awww,” said Sacha, disappointed.

Renault let out a long breath. Time to exhibit some of that famous French savoir faire.

“A beautiful car is like a beautiful woman, don't you think, Ricky?” he said. “The lines, the curves, the hidden power under the hood.” Renault admired American cars, which was a good thing, since the European automakers had long since switched to war production. “So many exit visas, so little time.” He gave a little shake of his head in regret.

“Speaking of which,” said Rick, “we're going to need a few of those ourselves. Think you can help out?”

“I believe I still carry some authority in these parts,” said Renault, reaching into the breast pocket of his uniform. Long ago he had learned that one should never travel without a valid ticket to safety secreted somewhere upon one's person. “Here they are: two exit visas.”

“Make it three.”

“Three?”

“One for me, one for you, and one for Sam.”

“I see,” said Renault. He counted them out as if they were legal tender, except more valuable. “All they require is an authorized signature, which fortunately—for the time being, at least—is mine.” He scratched his name with a flourish, three times.

From his pocket Rick produced a flask of bourbon, took a tug on it, and offered it to Renault. The little Frenchman savored the liquor appreciatively. Rick didn't offer one to Sam. He knew better. Sam didn't drink with the customers, and Sam didn't drink with Rick. Sam didn't even drink with himself very often.

“Let's hope your John Hancock's good until tomorrow morning,” said Rick.

Inside the Buick it was warm and dry. Renault could feel the night's chill starting to disperse. He had never liked Morocco all that much anyway. He wouldn't be sorry to leave it. “Things are becoming clearer to me now. You and Laszlo knew the end of the script before either of you said a line back there.” He wished he had something to smoke. “When did you hatch this plan?”

“When you had Laszlo in the holding pen, of course.” Rick lit another cigarette and offered the captain one as well. “After you'd arrested him for being at the Underground meeting. I told you that you couldn't hold him very long on that petty charge.”

“And you promised that you'd entrap him for me by handing over the letters of transit,” interrupted Renault.

“The setup was perfect for you,” Rick continued. “When you saw Laszlo and Ilsa walk into my cafÉ, you must have thought you were in seventh heaven, because they were in the one place in the world where you had the power of life and death over them. I gave you the chance to nab Laszlo and make yourself a hero with Strasser, and you fell for it like a ton of bricks.”

“I did indeed,” admitted Renault. .”There's one thing I don't understand, though. Why did you give the letters of transit to Laszlo and his wife? Why did you change your mind about helping him escape Casablanca for Lisbon and America? You, who always prided yourself on sticking your neck out for no man. Surely there must have been more in it for you than the relatively trifling sum of ten thousand francs.”

Rick looked out the window, at nothing. “You might say I liked the potential payday. Or you might say I was tired of looking for the waters in Casablanca and coming up with nothing but sand.” He took a deep drag on his Chesterfield and exhaled. “Or you just might say that destiny finally caught up with me.”

Her letter was in his breast pocket. Sam had given it to him in the cafÉ, before he had left for the airport and his fatal encounter with Major Strasser. It had been hidden in Sam's piano, the same place Rick himself had hidden the stolen letters of transit that enabled Laszlo and Ilsa to get away.

My dearest Richard,

If you are reading this letter, it means that I have escaped with Victor.

I thought that after Paris I should never have to part from you this way again. Yet here we are, having to say good-bye twice, once with our lips and once more with our hearts.

You must believe me when I tell you that when we met I thought Victor was dead. We said no questions, and I never questioned the fact that I was free to love you. Some women search all their lives for a man to love. I have found two.

As I write these words, I don't know what will happen tonight at the airport. Like the last time we parted, I cannot be sure that we shall meet again. But unlike the last time, I can hope.

In Lisbon, we shall stay at the Hotel Aviz. After that, only God knows. Please come if you can. If not for my sake, then for Victor's. We both need you.

Ilsa—

The big car sailed through the damp night like an ocean liner on a calm sea, picking up speed despite the poor roadway. Sam piloted the vehicle expertly, the way he played the piano. He sensed rather than saw the turnoffs, reading them the way a blind man read Braille. They were well away from the city now.

“Turn on the radio, will you, Sacha?” asked Rick. He was tired of talking, and before they lost the signal he wanted to hear some music. Maybe something from Benny Goodman and his band. He was also wondering whether the news of Major Strasser's death had been broadcast yet.

“Sure, boss,” said Sacha. He shot out one oversize hand and began worrying the radio dial until he managed to find a station. “Blah blah blah is all that's on.”

“Then turn the blah blah blah up so we can at least hear it,” Rick ordered. After all his time in Casablanca and in Paris, his French was still only passable, and sometimes he had trouble understanding on the telephone or over the radio. If anything important was going on, Louis would tell him soon enough. Or Sam, who learned languages the way he learned the piano, by ear.

Renault was about to say something when something caught his attention. “Quiet!” he shouted in a tone that shocked everybody into silence.

Sacha fiddled with the volume, and an excited voice suddenly filled the car. Even Rick knew what the announcer was saying. He just didn't want to believe it.

In far-off Hawaii, the Japanese had just bombed Pearl Harbor.

“Boss, we got trouble,” Sam said from the front seat.

“I know that,” snapped Rick, trying to listen to the radio. He caught Sam's gaze in the rearview mirror.

“I mean we got company,” Sam explained calmly, slamming the car into high gear.

Rick twisted in his seat. A pair of yellow headlamps was gaining on them.

The silence was broken by the unmistakable sound of automatic weapons. A bullet pinged off the trunk of the Buick.

“Gimme a clip, Sacha,” Rick said.

“Right here, boss,” said the Russian, happy at last.

Rick slammed it into his Colt .45. He had always wanted to see if a phaeton with a 141-horsepower engine could outrun a Mercedes-Benz, and now he was about to find out.

CHAPTER TWO

Ilsa Lund turned to face her husband as their plane ascended into the night sky. They flew directly over the city at first, then banked steeply out toward the sea. Her last view of Casablanca was of Rick's place. Illuminated only by the street lamps, it looked silent and forlorn.

Traces of her tears remained on her cheeks. She didn't want to wipe them away. They were all she had left. “Everything's happened so fast,” she murmured. Too fast. The surprise, the shock, the excitement, the danger, and now the relief—relief so tinged with sadness and regret.

“I didn't know he would be in Casablanca!” she whispered, more to herself than to Victor. “How could I have? What fate led us to him—to him, who had the letters of transit! I know you're upset about what happened in Paris between Rick and me, but please try not to be. Didn't everything work out for the best? Where would we be without those letters? What would we have done?”

She clutched his arm and imagined that the beating of her heart could be heard over the drone of the airplane's engines. “Oh, Victor,” she said, “don't you see? I thought you were dead, and I thought my life was over, too. I was lonely. I had nothing, not even hope. Oh, I don't know. I don't know anything anymore!” She started to cry again, but she was not sure why or for whom. She dabbed at her eyes with her handkerchief as the plane bumped its way through the clouds.

“Then I learned that you were alive, and how much you needed me to help you in your struggle,” she said, regaining control. “You could have abandoned me a dozen times in the past eighteen months—in Lille, when I was having trouble with the authorities, in Marseille, when I was sick for two weeks and you nursed me back to health—and in Casablanca, when you might have purchased one of those letters and fled. But you didn't. Now I understand why you have kept our marriage a secret even from our friends, so that the Gestapo would never suspect that I was your wife.”

She managed to look over at Victor, but he was staring straight ahead again, as if lost in thought. She wondered, not for the first time, if he had heard a single word she had said. He had so much on his mind. “Tell me … tell me you're not too angry with me,” she concluded.

He reached over and patted her arm affectionately and a little distractedly. “Anger and jealousy are two emotions I choose to live without,” he said. “Besides, how could I ever be angry with you when there is so much important work ahead?”

“Yes, Victor,” replied Ilsa. Did he not understand what she was trying to say, or was it impossible for him? “How could you?”

For a while they sat together in silence. If the other passengers on the plane had noticed anything out of the ordinary about the handsome couple, they did not let their curiosity show. In wartime Europe, keeping one's curiosity private was always wise.

Victor leaned his head close to Ilsa's. “When we get to Lisbon, my dear, I want you to do exactly as I tell you.”

“When have I ever not?” asked Ilsa, but Victor was still talking.

“The slightest hesitation could be fatal for both of us. Until now, I’ve been unable to tell you very much about my mission.” His voice softened a bit. “I couldn't breathe a word of it to anyone back in Casablanca—not even you. I’m sure you understand.”

“I’m sure I do,” replied Ilsa.

The plane climbed above the Atlantic, buffeted by the winds. Once or twice Ilsa felt her stomach lurch, but Victor remained imperturbable. He had faced far worse dangers than a simple airplane trip, she knew, and she envied him his calm certitude. She wondered if that was an emotion she would ever experience for herself.

“Even at this moment, I cannot confide in you the full details of our plan,” Victor went on. “Indeed, I myself do not know them fully yet.”

Ilsa interrupted him by placing her hand on his forearm. He winced, and then she remembered the wound he had suffered back in Casablanca, when the police broke up the Underground meeting just before his arrest. “It's very dangerous, isn't it?” she asked.

“More dangerous than anything I’ve ever done,” said Victor. “But don't worry, everything will work out. Our cause is just and theirs is not, and in the end we shall win. When even a man as blind to the fate of nations as Richard Blaine can see the difference between us and the Germans, the virtue of our cause must be clear to everyone.”

“What do you mean, Victor?”

Laszlo gave his wife a small smile. “I mean simply that his action in giving us the transit letters was the mark of a man who has stopped running from himself. Who has finally realized, as you and I did long ago, that there are far more important things in this life than oneself or one's own happiness. Why do you suppose he did what he did back there? Why did he give us the letters of transit, when he might have kept them for himself?”

“I’m sure I don't know,” replied Ilsa. Her mind flashed back to the last time she had seen Rick alone, in his apartment above the cafÉ last night. She had been ready to sleep with him or shoot him, whatever it took to get the letters of transit that were her husband's passport to freedom. She had not shot him.

“When he might have turned me over to Major Strasser as casually as swatting a fly,” continued Victor. “When” —his face darkened a bit—”he might have tried to take you away with him.”

“Why, Victor?” breathed Ilsa.

“Because your saloon keeper has finally become a man, and declared his willingness to join us in our fight,” said her husband. “He knew that I must escape Casablanca, and he knew I needed you to come with me. Whatever his true feelings for you might be, they were of no moment. Because the cause is all.”

Their plane landed in Lisbon without incident. Victor and Ilsa passed through the border formalities easily. They took their rooms in the Hotel Aviz without question. They slept together that night without passion.

The next morning Ilsa was startled to wakefulness by a soft knock at the door. Two years ago she never would have noticed it, not so softly and not so far away. Since 1939 no one in occupied Europe had slept well or soundly. Instinctively she reached for her husband, but he was not there. Up and dressed, he was just closing the bedroom door behind him.

Outside she could hear voices. They were raised from time to time, but not in anger. In her nightgown she padded across the bed chamber and tried the door, but it was locked. Victor had locked it from the outside. For her safety? Or for his?

She bent down to the keyhole. The room beyond was still plunged in the darkness of the coming winter solstice. Listening intently, she could just make out some of the words. To judge from the differing voices, there were two other men in the front room with her husband.

“… changes everything … ,” Victor was saying.

“… British Intelligence … ,” said someone else.

“… danger … no chance … alive … ,” said the second stranger.

“…der Henker …”

“… Prague …”

“As soon as possible!” Victor said, putting an end to the discussion.

She heard the front door shut softly. She jumped back into bed when she heard the turn of the key in the bedroom door.

“Is that you, Victor?” She feigned sleepiness.

“Yes, my dear,” he said.

She wiped some imaginary sand out of her eyes. “Are you up so soon?”

“I went for an early morning stroll,” said Laszlo. “You can't believe how good it feels to breathe free air once more. After Mauthausen, I never thought I’d have the chance again.”

Ilsa propped herself up slowly, yawned, and stretched. “I can only imagine how it must feel,” she said.

“Of course you can.” He stroked her hair lightly, absentmindedly. “There has been some extraordinary news, my dear. The Japanese have attacked the Americans at Pearl Harbor in Hawaii.”

Ilsa sat bolt upright; no need to feign sleepiness now. “What?” she exclaimed.

“It happened yesterday, a surprise attack on the U.S. Navy at Pearl Harbor near Honolulu. Most of the ships were destroyed in the harbor, and many men were killed. President Roosevelt has asked Congress for a declaration of war on Japan.” Victor seemed almost joyful. “Now the Americans will have to join in our struggle.”

He got up and walked around the room excitedly. “Don't you see, Ilsa? This is what we have hoped for. This is what I hoped for during all those long months in the camps, when it seemed that no one would come to our aid. The English look beaten. The Russians are reeling on three fronts. But this changes everything! Everything!”

Impulsively he swept his wife up in his arms.

“With the Americans on our side, we cannot lose! Oh, we won't be victorious right away; it will take years to roll back the Germans, destroy their armies, and free Europe once more. But the die is cast now, and there is no turning back. There are no Rick Blaines in America anymore, men who hide behind their cowardice and call it neutrality. It will take time, but from this moment on, Germany is finished.”

As abruptly as he had embraced her, he released her. “We must make haste—more haste than ever. Quickly!” He found her suitcase and threw it on the bed. “The taxi is downstairs, and the plane leaves in less than an hour.”

Ilsa rose quickly and began to pack. “I have always wanted to see New York,” she said. “Now that the Americans are on our side—”

“There is no longer any point in going to America,” Victor said. His bags were already packed, and he stood in the doorway impatiently. He was barely able to contain his excitement. “The time for speech making and fund-raising is over, thank God. Now the time for action is at hand!”

“Then where are we going?” asked Ilsa.

“To the headquarters of the Czech government-in-exile since the fall of France,” he said as he closed the door behind them. “To London.”

“London!” exclaimed Ilsa. That was where King Haakon lived now, along with the Norwegian government-in-exile, ever since Vidkun Quisling and his Nasjonal Samling, aided by some traitorous army officers, helped the Germans to occupy their homeland.

That was where her mother was.

Her thoughts raced back to Rick as Victor settled their account. She had asked him to follow, and now she must tell him where. Impulsively she scribbled unobserved a private note for Mr. Richard Blaine and left it with the chief reservations clerk, the one who had looked at her so appreciatively when they'd checked in the night before. The note was brief and to the point. “To London.” “British Intelligence.” “Danger.” “Prague.” And “Come quickly.” It was signed simply, “I.”

That was all. She hoped Rick would understand what it meant, because she didn't.

She smiled at the clerk as she handed him the note. He looked back at her with the same mixture of awe, admiration, and desire that she had seen in the faces of men since she was fourteen years old.

“For Mr. Blaine only,” she said, gazing into his eyes to make sure he wouldn't forget. “You understand?”

“You have my word on it, madam,” said the clerk, impressed.

Then she heard her husband's voice in her ear, felt his hand on her arm—”Hurry, Ilsa, hurry”—and she was whisked away.

The waiting taxi sped them to their destination. They boarded the London-bound plane and took their seats. A pair of young, tough men, Slavs by the look of them, got on with them. They said nothing to Victor, but Ilsa knew they were wa. . .