Casablanca, An Alternate Version

Casablanca, An Alternate Version

Part 1

It had been some months since the woman known to the other members of the Villa as Yvette Delaune had engaged in an adventure at the Villa di Dolore. And once again during those months of absence the need to live out at least a small part of her wonderfully developed fantasy life grew strong in her. Regrettably she lived more than four hundred miles from the Villa, so the opportunities to engage in such activities were limited. On the other hand, since her visits were so few they were very special and she felt no guilt about arranging for, as she thought of it, the full treatment. It was for her a special treat like an occasional visit to a fancy spa would be to her friends, none of whom had the faintest clue as to what she was up to.

As usual, she floated the usual cover story to parents, softball team and the friend who was dropping by to feed and pet the cat. She was flying out for one of her occasional visits to an old college friend. She kept it low key, not making a big deal out of it and fortunately no one ever wondered why the friend never came to visit or asked for details of her trips.

Yvette took Friday off from work and caught a flight timed to arrive at dusk. It helped the transition from reality to fantasy to make the final leg of the journey in darkness. A driver from the Villa was dutifully present at the gate holding a sign neatly lettered "Ms. Delaune". Though they knew each other by sight, from previous visits, he greeted her with the expected phrase and she made the correct response. It was a procedure followed religiously to prevent the slightest possibility of someone else named Delaune being collected by accident and causing an embarrassing situation.

The driver led her to baggage claim where he gathered her single bag, then to the car to begin the two hour drive to the country. At the Villa she checked into a single room and settled in for a solitary evening, a common and recommended procedure for those embarking on a scene that requires putting one's mind in a different era. She ordered a simple French bistro style dinner with a good wine to be sent up and settled back to read one of her favorite espionage novels.

Yvette had a slightly different take on such books, and movies as well, than most of her friends. Where the average person wondered how the heroine was going to escape from the threat of death or torture, Yvette wondered what would happen if she didn't escape. In the movie "The English Patient" she picked up on a minor character, one many might have forgotten about a minute after her two brief appearances. David Caravaggio's girlfriend, the one the Germans forced to identify him. She'd obviously been tortured, forced to cooperate, to betray her boyfriend. Long after the movie was over Yvette wondered just what they'd done to her. She formed some fairly elaborate late night, under the covers fantasies with herself in the starring role of Caravaggio's girlfriend in the hands of the cruel Germans. It was quite stimulating imagining herself helpless at the hands of the brutal German interrogators. What would they do to make her talk, she wondered.

The seeds of her new adventure had been planted one night when she played a video of "Casablanca" for the umpteenth time. She was particularly fond of tales of World War II and the French Resistance and anything related to it. As she watched the movie she couldn't help wondering what would have happened if the Gestapo had hauled in Ilsa, Ingrid Bergman's character, and tried to force her to tell them what Victor Laslo was up to. It seemed quite obvious to her. Here's this woman traveling with a known Resistance worker. Not only that, she was known to have consorted with that disreputable American, Rick Blaine. If Rick wasn't a prime suspect for being an enemy agent, who was? It was inconceivable that it wouldn't occur to the Gestapo to bring her in and try to make her talk.

So she had called the Planners at the Villa, explained the premise of her fantasy and made arrangements for a visit. The Planners were very familiar with Yvette's particular requirements. Plans were quickly finalized.

The early morning was spent with a very light breakfast, then the necessary preparations. She showered and shaved, legs, underarms, her pubic area. Then she dressed in the clothing the prop department had provided, silk panties, bra, stockings with garter belt, a light cotton sun dress that buttoned all the way down the front. A light, wide brimmed hat suitable for touring the Moroccan city of Casablanca. A stylish leather handbag and sensible shoes completed the outfit. All very '40's in style. Then she waited. There came a light knock on the door. The Handler announced himself. She rose and let him in.

"Ready?" the Handler asked.

Yvette nodded. The Handler gently strapped a leather collar around her neck and attached a short leash. He led her from the apartment, down several hallways and then down the central stairway to the main lobby. There he stopped her.

A handful of other guests and staff, seeing a scene about to start, paused to unobtrusively watch.

"Your scene is about to begin," The Handler whispered in her ear. "Do you wish to continue?"

She nodded assent.

"Very well," the Handler continued. "Remember your safe word, and the secret the Gestapo wish to wring out of you, is the phrase 'Play it again, Sam'. Repeat it after me, please."

"Play it again, Sam," Yvette said, suppressing a smile and a giggle.

"Very good. Now, from this moment you are not Yvette, you are Ilsa. You are in Morocco, controlled by the Vichy government of France. But the Gestapo is here, too, and they really call the shots. The French are merely puppets. And the Gestapo have come to arrest you. They are about to put you in their car and drive you to their headquarters where you will be interrogated."

Yvette heard footsteps on the marble floor of the lobby as the Handler removed the collar. She turned to see two men approaching. One was large and rather burly looking, in German uniform, the dreaded black uniform of the SS. The other man was smaller, dressed in the khaki uniform and kepi of the French colonial police. He had a dapper little mustache. They stepped smartly, almost as if marching. The one in the French uniform stopped directly in front of her, the German off to one side.

"Pardon, mademoiselle," the French officer said. "But our German colleagues would like to have a word with you at their offices. Please come along with us."

The German cleared his throat, ostentatiously. The Frenchman gave his best Gallic shrug.

"But of course, we must search you before we depart."

The German rudely grabbed Ilsa's purse. He rummaged around in it. He brought out a small pistol, a Mauser Hsc. He held it up for the Frenchman to see.

"But of course you have a permit for this?" he asked, apologetically. "Casablanca is a dangerous city these days." That was directed at the German, who responded with a frown.

Ilsa shook her head in the negative. She wasn't certain what the prop people had put in her purse, but she was fairly certain a pistol permit was not in there. A small crowd had begun to assemble, members and guests of the Villa and a few employees, watching the scene develop.

The German handed the pistol and handbag to the Frenchman and nodded him out of the way. The he took position in front of Ilsa.

His strong hands gripped her arms and raised them to shoulder level. Then he quickly frisked her, spending a little more time than necessary around her chest and her inner thighs. Then her arms were lowered and her wrists gathered together behind her and handcuffs snapped onto them. There was a brief pause while he stepped back in front of her. He grasped the lapels of her dress and pulled. In a series of sharp jerks the buttons holding her dress closed were ripped off and the dress fell open, revealing her under things to the world. The German's fingers worked their way into the cups of her bra, then pulled the cups down. Yvette's breasts were small, nearly perfect little hemispheres, what once were referred to as champagne breasts in the days when champagne was served in wide, shallow glasses. The elastic of the bra, pushing up from beneath, made them stand out more than they normally would have.

The German then stepped to one side of her while the Frenchman moved to the other. A strong hand grasped each of her upper arms and she was walked, thus partially exposed, out the front door of the Villa and down the stone steps.

At the foot of the steps a black vintage Renault waited. The French officer opened the door to the back seat and slid in place. The German then helped Ilsa in before sliding in beside her and closing the door. As the vehicle started to move the German picked up a black cloth sack and slipped it over Ilsa's head.

Deprived of sight, Ilsa could only guess at where they were taking her. She felt the car accelerate, turn, decelerate several times. There were a number of long stretches with no apparent turns. She wondered if they'd left the grounds of the Villa and she was being paraded, breasts exposed, through the neighboring countryside. She felt the car slow again, felt the turning forces as it made a right hand turn.

She heard the car wheels grinding their way over a gravel drive, felt the vehicle slow to a stop. The door to her right opened. She felt slightly cooler air flow over her exposed skin.

Then she was being pulled from the car and helped to her feet. The strong hands maintained a firm grip on her right arm as they paused. Then a hand grasped her left arm and she was being walked forward.

"Careful of the steps," a voice said quietly. She felt tentatively with her feet, finding each step. Then they were walking her briskly again. The change in tone of their footsteps told her they had entered a building, walking on carpet. Hushed comments, other footsteps told her they were passing other people. No doubt they were looking at her, leering at her as she was paraded half naked past them.

They made several turns. Then they made a sharp right turn and suddenly she was halted. Her escorts stopped so suddenly she almost pitched forwards.

Then the hands were released. She heard footsteps retreating, a door closing. She was left standing, the hood over her head, wrists manacled behind her back. Her ears strained to hear sounds, hints of where she might be, and if she was alone. Several times she thought she heard something, the rustle of clothing, the scuff of a shoe against linoleum. But she couldn't be sure.

Then she heard footsteps behind her. She hadn't heard the door again, so someone must have been in the room with her. The hood was whisked away. She blinked at the light and looked around her. She was in a fairly nondescript office. The furniture, she noted, was all wood, wood desks and filing cabinets, as they might have been in the '40's. And she was not alone.

The two men who had brought her were gone. In their place was an older, slightly paunchy, slightly graying man in a '40's style civilian suit. Standing off to one side was a thin, tall, older, very severe looking woman in a simple black skirt and jacket that might have been some sort of uniform. A younger man, early twenties she guessed, in the black uniform of the SS, stood well off to the other side. He was blonde and quite handsome, Ilsa thought.

Well, Ilsa," the older man said, with just the slightest trace of a German accent. "It's so nice to finally meet you. I've heard so much about you. From our agents and informers of course. Now, why don't we make this easy on everyone and you tell us everything you know about what Victor Laslo is up to. And while you're about it, you can also tell us about your friend Rick Blaine and his little friends in that laughable excuse for an American spy network."

He waited, an expectant look on his face. Ilsa tried to imagine what kind of expression a defiant Ingrid Bergman would put on and tried to duplicate it.

"No?" the man asked. He brought one hand up under his chin, bringing the other arm across his body to support the elbow. He looked at Ilsa, pensively, then made a small motion to the others.

Immediately the younger man stepped behind Ilsa and grabbed her upper arms. The woman knelt down to one side, to make it hard for Ilsa to kick at her Ilsa realized, and first removed Ilsa's shoes, then her stockings. The sun dress was slid back down Ilsa's arms as far as the handcuffs allowed. The bra was unhooked and pulled up over her head so it, too could be slid back to join the dress. One side of the handcuffs was unlocked, the man and woman working together to keep control of both Ilsa's arms as the dress and bra were slipped off that arm. The handcuff was snapped back in place before the procedure was repeated with the other arm.

Garter belt and panties came next and Ilsa was standing completely naked but for the handcuffs. But there was more humiliation coming. The woman forced her to open her mouth so she could check it for hidden things, microfilm or cyanide capsules. Her ears and nose were given an uncomfortably close inspection, her hair combed out. The search moved downward. Underarms inspected, legs spread. She was bent over forwards for a body cavity search, which disgusted her even more than she expected it would.

At last she was standing upright again before the older man, who'd been watching the proceedings with barely concealed amusement.

"One more time I will ask," he said quietly. "Will you cooperate and spare us the necessity of making your life a misery?"

Ilsa remained silent and tried to look defiant, which was difficult after having had gloved fingers intruding into her most private places.

"Very well," the man said, coming very close to her face. "You realize, Ilsa, we have ways of making you talk."

Ilsa almost cracked up at the cliche, but managed with some difficulty to keep a straight face. The man was a good actor. He showed no trace of humor, but stared her straight in the eye. He stood there for nearly a minute. Ilsa found it very unnerving. Then he stepped back and turned to his assistants.

"Very well. Take her to the meditation room, where she may ponder her decision," the man said.

"Yavowl, Mein Herr," the severe looking woman said, clicking her heels. She stepped behind Ilsa and slipped the hood over her head again. Then Ilsa was turned around. She heard the door open as hands again grasped her arms at the biceps. They led her out into the hallway again, only this time she was completely naked, even the sparse cover of her pubic hair, which she'd shaved that morning, gone.

They moved briskly along the hallway, turning every now and then, Ilsa's bare feet padding along at a slightly quicker pace than the slapping leather of her escorts' boots. Again Ilsa had the sensation of people watching her, of her being paraded naked before strangers. She thought she heard voices, muffled laughter.

They turned and descended a flight of stairs. Then a second flight. This second flight was bare metal and at the base the floor, became bare, slightly rough concrete. One more turn, the sound of a door opening, metal by the sound of it, and they entered a room. The door closed with a metallic ring.

To be continued....

Copyright 2005 by von Hentzau. Permission is granted to copy for personal use only providing all disclaimers and copyright notices are retained. This work may not be reproduced or distributed in any form in any media without permission of the author.