by Liliana Hart
“Ksiaz Castle,” Pierre said, driving comfortably up the winding roads into the town center. “Built in the thirteenth century.”
“It’s beautiful,” I said. “Why’d you put lingerie in the suitcase? Did you know they would open it?”
“It was a hunch,” he said. “Your file said men, including the enemy, were enamored by you. Therefore, I assumed you were a very attractive woman. And the soldiers here under Captain Rolfe have turned this into a city of decadence and debauchery. The drinks flow freely in the tavern, and many soldiers have been distracted by the women who work there. Sex has toppled more than one dynasty, and there’s no point in not using our natural assets.”
“Mmm,” I said, trying to absorb the lay of the city. He’d been right about the trains. I could see several sets of tracks climbing into the mountains or veering into the trees. “Before I seduce the entire German army, are you going to tell me why I parachuted explosive components into Waldenburg.”
“In due time,” he said. “Enjoy the scenery. We won’t be here much longer.”
That was surprising news to me. I hadn’t been told the duration of the mission before I’d left London, but I’d expected to be here for at least a few weeks.
It was a Gothic city with tall spires and brightly colored orange tile roofs, and the streets were paved with stones. It was a city that bustled with commerce and the lives of people who were doing their best to look the other way at what the Nazis were doing for their own self-preservation. Tram cars ran down the main streets as people got on and off for work or school.
“City market,” Pierre said. “It’s within walking distance from our apartment. You can get everything from pigs to rhubarbs, depending on the season and the farmer.”
“Interesting combination,” I said.
“Wait until you see how helpful the pigs have been,” he said cryptically. “City Hall is there.” He pointed to a more modern structure, but with the same Gothic architecture. “It’s been taken over as a command center. This is Captain Rolfe’s domain. He’s taken over the Burgermeister’s home attached to the side. Rolfe is an excellent politician. He wines and dines the elite and throws lavish dinner parties celebrating their success at liberating the city from those who are not of pure race.”
“He succeeded?” I asked. “Completely?”
“Rolfe is a machine. Very calculating. Very thorough. This is a German province, but because of the proximity to the border there were a mixture of nationalities and races. The Jews went first. Then those of Slavic and Romani descent. More than a dozen twins were taken and all of the patients in the mental ward at the hospital were evacuated and put on the trains.”
“Which means everyone who’s left is pretending they don’t know what’s happening to their neighbors,” I said. “Despicable.”
“Agreed,” he said. “Which is why I’m not in the least bit sorry that we’re going to ruin people’s lives while we’re here.”
“That’s the most romantic thing you’ve said since we met,” I said, my mouth quirking in a smile. “How’s that? Did that sound wifely?”
“No,” he said. “I’m not sure marriage suits you.”
“I’ve often thought the same,” I said, thinking that maybe Pierre Lavigne was more observant of human nature than I’d given him credit for. “It seems a stifling institution.”
“I’d think that would depend on whether or not a couple can stand to be in the same room with each other.”
“Are you married then?” I asked.
“I can’t say,” he said, his tone perplexed.
It seemed an odd answer. “It’s a secret?”
“No,” he said. “I can’t say because I don’t know the answer. I was married just before the war started, but my skills were more necessary to my country than to my marriage. I received a petition for divorce almost two years ago, but I’ve been too busy to see about it. I’d assume the magistrate would go ahead and grant her request after this long.”
I arched a brow. “It seems like something you should check into next time you’re in France.”
“Why?” he asked, flicking his fingers off the steering wheel. “I never plan to marry again, so it’s inconsequential.”
“It must have been a memorable experience for you to be so blasé about it.”
“It was impulsive and romantic. Which is what the young and stupid are known for. I truly never think on it, and I can’t recall what she looks like. It seemed a good idea at the time, though I can’t remember why we thought that. It’s best not to get attached to anyone in this business.”
“You plan to continue in the business after the war is over?” I asked, curiously.
“The business of secrets and lies never stops, even after the last bullet is fired. Someone has to do it.”
I’d had the same thoughts.
There was a roundabout across from city hall and Pierre circled around until he came to the exit for a wide street that was busier than all the others combined. Rows of shops and bakeries and florists flanked both sides of the wide boulevard—which had recently been renamed A.H. Strasse after the Nazi leader.
“The stationary shop,” Pierre said, gesturing to the left.
The storefront was large and painted black, and the windows were polished to a gleam. It sat between a bookstore on one side and an olive-green building with an ornate front door. There was a swastika insignia as plain as day on the door.
“You’re kidding,” I said. “The shop is next door to the Gestapo?”
“What better place to be,” he said. “Hiding in plain sight. The best part is that our apartments are on the floors above it, and the walls are thin. So make sure you’re vocal in your pleasure when we pretend to make love. I have a reputation to uphold.”
The Plan
Pierre’s comment reminded me how important it was to always stay in character. Our level of intimacy could mean life or death.
“If the walls are thin,” I said, “how will you tell me what the plan is?”
“Have you ever heard the saying about the best way to eat an elephant?” he asked.
“Of course,” I said. “A bite at a time.”
He nodded. “And that’s what we’re doing to the army. This will be a coordinated attack. We have spies, as you know, in Paris. Most of the army supplies are manufactured there. Everything from uniforms and socks, to parachutes and weapons. The trains in Paris will be loaded in the morning with everything the army needs to survive the winter. There are supply trains heading to all of Europe. The train manifest says the shipment for this area will arrive Friday morning. Our mission, and the mission of the other teams scattered across Europe, is to make sure the Nazi army has a very uncomfortable winter. It gets cold in these mountains come January.
“It seems simple enough,” I said. “What’s the catch?”
“The catch is that we have to intercept the train, get on board, plant the explosives, and then jump off again before we’re blown to hell and back.”
“That seems like a pretty significant catch,” I said.
“I didn’t say it was easy.”
“Do we have a team?” I asked, remembering the group I’d become close to in Marseille.
“The SOE has others in this area that have been in place for a while,” he said. “And you were not the only person dropped into enemy territory. One person can’t transport all of the detonation devices. Most explosive material is common and easy enough to explain if caught with it, but best not to have all the components together.”
Behind A.H. Strasse was a narrow alleyway where shop owners, most of whom lived above their businesses, could enter privately. The Gestapo guarded the alley and gestured us through when they recognized Pierre.
“I’ve taken the liberty of soundproofing our closet,” he said. “If we need privacy I’ll use the phrase, “She ordered lilac perfumed stationary.”
“And what if I need privacy?” I asked.
“You can use the phr
ase, “Six dozen wedding invitations.”
“Of course,” I said. “That seems like something that would come up in everyday conversation.”
“It is for stationary shop owners,” he said. He pulled into the short drive behind a four-story narrow stucco building painted dark gold. There were no windows along the back—the expense had been reserved for the side facing the street.
“I hope there’s not a fire,” I said. “I don’t like our chances of escape.”
“There is a closet on the second floor where I’ve removed the paneling and loosened the mortar in the bricks. All we’d have to do it push and we could jump from the second floor.”
“Let’s hope there are no fires then,” I said. “I’ve never been keen on jumping out of buildings onto a pile of bricks.”
He laughed. “Jumping out of planes is much easier?”
“Always,” I said. “If the chute doesn’t pull you’re assured immediate death. Jumping from buildings leaves too many variables as far as how much damage the body can sustain without actually killing you. Give me a quick death any day.”
“That is something we can most definitely agree on,” he said. “How are your acting skills?”
“They’ve served me well so far,” I said, arching a brow. “Why?”
“Because we’re about to come home after almost a year apart. If it doesn’t sound like we’re doing what normal couples would do in that instant, they’re going to be suspicious. I just need to know if you have inhibitions.”
I laughed, finding the statement funnier than he probably meant it to be. “Don’t worry,” I told him. “I can be completely convincing. Women have been making men think they’re enjoying themselves since the beginning of time. I’m not sure a man has ever noticed when she’s not.”
He looked at me in surprise. “It sounds like maybe you’ve not known the right men.”
I couldn’t help myself and rolled my eyes. “You think? How long are we going to sit in the car? What are your acting skills like? Am I going to have to carry this thing or are you going to participate?”
This time, it was him who rolled his eyes, and he got out of the car and came around to open my door for me. There were two guards standing in the doorway of the building next to us, and a Nazi flag hung over the threshold. They were facing each other in conversation, but I could tell their attention was on us.
Pierre took my hand and pulled me from the car, and then he swooped me up into his arms and ran into the house, both of us laughing like we hadn’t a care in the world.
Ada Mae
“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” Ada said, holding up her hands. “Are we about to get to the gross parts?”
“What gross parts?” Scarlet asked. “There are no gross parts.”
“Uh, huh. Just like when we’re watching your soap opera and they start ripping each other’s clothes off, and then you send me to the kitchen to get us snacks so you can watch it by yourself. Why do they rip clothes like that? I’d be real mad if some man ripped my favorite shirt. I’d make him buy me a bunch more.”
Scarlet chuckled. “It just happens sometimes. In the heat of the moment. But it wasn’t just some man. And it wasn’t even real. Pierre and I had to pretend we were married, and that’s what married people do.”
Ada rolled her eyes. “Tell me about it. Now I’ve got a little brother. Mom and dad are always doing gross stuff.”
“That’s good. It means they love each other. And sometimes when parents love each other you get a baby brother in the deal.”
“I know all about sex,” Ada said. “I read a book with pictures and everything.”
“Hmm,” Scarlet said. “I’m sure you did. But maybe you should ask your mom, just to make sure the book you read was telling the truth.”
“I thought books always told the truth,” she said, confused.
“Oh, no,” Scarlet said, shaking her head. “That’s why we’ve got a brain. We read and learn and go to school, and then we can use our best judgment. Because sometimes when something sounds like hogwash, that’s because it is.”
“What’s hogwash?”
“It means it’s a bunch of bull.”
“Gotcha,” Ada said. “What books did you read that were bull?”
“Hitler wrote a book. And I can tell you, that was a whole lot of bull.”
Ada’s lips pinched tightly and she said, “I imagine so.”
“And the Nazi’s used to publish pamphlets all the time. It was just propaganda to scare people into doing what they were told. That’s why I never believe anyone plastered on the news screens or trying too hard to be in charge. I’ve been there, done that.”
“What happened after you and Pierre pretended to do the gross stuff?”
“That’s where things get interesting,” Scarlet said. “Because if you remember, we only had a few days to get explosives made before the train came in. And we were living right next door to Gestapo headquarters.”
“Hiding in plain sight,” Ada said.
Bacon Grease
Three days in Waldenburg hadn’t given me clarity to the mission.
Pierre and I had done an award-winning performance of married life, having broken a lamp and a bowl filled with fruit in the process of “reconnecting,” garnering cheers and rowdy calls from the soldiers next door.
The detonators I’d smuggled into Germany were sitting under a plank in the floor, along with other familiar components that I guessed Pierre had picked up from other SOE agents or put together himself. It was up to us to put the explosives together, by combining common ingredients to make the nitroglycerine needed for dynamite. It was an unstable and dangerous process, and we were careful to keep everything separated. But I knew this would make our job more difficult because we’d have to assemble the components at the place of detonation, and we’d have to do it quickly.
I’d made myself at home in the lavish apartment, finding the kitchen well stocked and the bookshelves filled with an interesting assortment of literature, ranging from Mein Kampf to a book of bawdy poetry.
I spent my days listening through the wall about planned raids and names of families who were suspected of being Jewish supporters. I didn’t write anything down, but I wouldn’t forget. I was also able to hear Pierre open the stationary shop below and his conversations with customers. There was quite a bit of Nazi traffic through his doors, and hearing his answered, Heil, Hitlers and sympathetic conversation caused a brief hitch in my gut.
On my mission in Marseille, Henry Graham had been having those same kinds of conversations. He’d betrayed everyone—his country and me—and I couldn’t help but wonder if Pierre was the same wolf in sheep’s clothing.
When I wasn’t eavesdropping on the Nazis next door, I spent the rest of the empty hours shopping in the market or having coffee and pastries with the book shop owner next door. Anna was rigid and proudly German, and she had no sympathy for the innocent who’d been ousted from their homes and taken away to concentration camps, but I needed to make friends with the locals like Pierre had done for the past year. I’d learned quickly that everyone loved Pierre, and I needed to fit into the cover he’d built.
We went about our regular lives in the day, but at night, we were out to be seen. I didn’t have a true grasp of what Pierre’s status was, but it seemed a mix of money and political, and the clout he had made me realize that he’d been building more than just a cover during his time here.
And at night, we’d come together in the soundproof closet and speak of who we’d met or any pieces of information that had been learned during the day. But the night he came upstairs with two pounds of bacon grease in glass jars was one I wouldn’t forget.
“Do I want to know what you plan to do with all that bacon grease?” I asked once we were in the closet.
He arched a brow and his grin was a little wicked. “I definitely have plans for it. And you’re involved.”
“That’s what I was afraid of,” I said. “I’ve had some experi
ence with bacon grease.”
“That’s what I’ve heard,” he said. “It’s how I knew you’d be the perfect partner. I needed someone whose every move would be in sync with mine.”
“I guess most women would be flattered by that,” I said. “But I know I’m the one who’s about to be left holding the…”
“Careful,” Pierre warned.
“Explosives,” I finished. “What did you think I was going to say?”
“I’ve learned over the last few days that I have no idea what’s going to come out of that smart mouth.”
I smiled. “Well, then. Mission accomplished.”
He rolled his eyes. “Can you do it?”
“Build explosives powerful enough to destroy an entire train of supplies?”
“Yes,” he answered.
“Of course I can,” I said. “We’ll have to carry the liquid components separately so they don’t mix, but the bacon grease is a good substitute to make nitroglycerin. I read in one of the reports that there’s a campaign in America for housewives to save their bacon grease to donate to the army.”
“Yes, this wasn’t easy to come by,” he said. “Bacon grease is in high demand.”
“I’m sure,” I said, eyeing the two jars. “So the plan isn’t as easy as jumping on a slow-moving train, planting explosives, and then jumping back off again. It’s jumping onto a train without jostling volatile ingredients, and then building explosives once we’re on board and running a detonation line long enough to destroy all the train cars carrying supplies, and then—assuming we don’t blow ourselves up making the bombs—lighting the fuse and jumping off the train with enough clearance to avoid any shrapnel.”
“Don’t forget that the train will have armed guards.”
“Right,” I said. “Thank you for reminding me.”
“Then, yes,” he said. “That about sums it up.”
“Piece of cake.”
