Outside of the hotel, the only hotel for several miles, three cars parked. Crouched behind a bush, Rainier watched the black boots step from the sleek cars. Twelve Nazi soldiers moved from the cars to the entrance of the hotel. No doubt, they were gathering to celebrate their ideals over a Christmas feast commandeered from the French countryside. A few local women, legs painted to look as if they wore the fashionable stockings with the back seam, accompanied the men into the hotel. Women such as these made Rainier’s skin crawl. He saw them as profiteers, content to latch onto any man who could offer them something— food, drink or a ride in the car— for the low price of their morals.
As upsetting as it was to see fellow countrymen cozy up, quite literally, to the enemy, Rainier was not there because of these women or even as a result of the soldiers. He was, however, there for the cars. With the enemy tucked inside the hotel, surrounded in a cloud of French perfume and savoring delicacies, Rainier crept slowly to the cars. Throwing looks over his shoulders to ensure that he was alone and would not be spotted, he took a canteen from his pocket. Unscrewing the cap, he turned it over and spilled out the remaining drop or two of water. Next, he unscrewed the gas cap on the car and very carefully siphoned off the gas from the first car. When the canteen was full, he secured it and returned it cautiously to his bag. A flask was then produced from the bag, which he filled in the same manner. He moved from container to container and to each of the cars. When the doctor had filled each gasoline prescription, he packed up his bag to make a house call to his patients. Rainier fancied himself a sort of Robin Hood robbing from the power holders to give to the oppressed.
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