Watch of Nightingales

by Honor Gable

  My opinion of her rises. What a mad, brave job to take on, walking that thin line. And hiding her Jewish lover right under their noses.

  "Why don't you head to your room? I know this is a lot to take in. You have adjoining rooms in the back, the last two doors at the end of the hallway. Please, get some rest and clean up. My maid has drawn you both baths. We will speak more in the morning."

  Rivka and I keep the door between our rooms open, able to see each other from the beds.

  We aren't ready to be alone.

  I'm able to forget all my troubles and worries the moment I lay down on the bed most certainly made of angel clouds.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  AUDREY

  Lois lets me knock on the door, staying perched on the balls of her feet. Ready for flight. I'm to play the sisters' niece who’s come to visit and Lois is my dear friend and traveling companion. We're young and bored with the lack of men. The packet explaining our covers really said that. I roll my eyes over it for the fourth time. Xavier might have a sense of humor deep down, but I'm more convinced he actually thinks he made up a valid and not insulting cover.

  A woman much younger than I was expecting opens the door. She's mid-thirties, slim, and has brown hair without a hint of grey. Her neat and chic blue dress matches her eyes perfectly. She reminds me of Viola. Why the hell didn’t Xavier make her the niece?

  The woman throws her arms around me. "It's wonderful to see you, my darling. And you brought a friend? How lovely. Come in. Come in."

  We play our parts perfectly for any nosy neighbors. "Thank you, Auntie. This is my friend, Elodie. She was desperate to get away from our small town too."

  "Of course." She leads us inside, taking our bags.

  Another woman waits for us, taller than the other, maybe a year or two older. Same coloring, same smooth skin. Her dress is brown, but it isn't drab. It's beautiful, if a bit faded and outdated.

  These women aren't quite what I expected.

  They aren't spinster sisters.

  The introduce themselves. The younger one in blue is Jacqueline and the older one in brown is Agnes. Lois and I are bustled into a back room and shown a bath already set up for us. It takes every bit of self-control to keep from groaning. Lois's eyes shine at mine and I pull out a coin, smirking.

  "Tails."

  Heads. My chest squeezes with a held in squeal. "I win."

  She huffs, but leaves with the sisters.

  I decide to be nice and hurry up.

  It's wonderful to peel off my clothes and scrub what remains of the red stains off my skin. The woman from the shop packed nice clothes for me. They fit me perfectly. I choose the simple black dress for now, needing the soft fabric sliding against my legs.

  I saunter back into the main room on bare feet. "Your turn."

  Lois and the sisters sit on a sofa, sipping coffee. Real, from the smell of it. Agnes hands me a cup with a smile as I sit down. I don't hold back the groan of pleasure at my first taste in much too long. Lois grins over her shoulder as she hurries to her own bath. The sisters chuckle too.

  Wanting answers, I take a final sip before setting the cup back in the saucer. "How does Xavier know you? Do you know the lady who took in the rest of our team?"

  Jacqueline answers at a nod from Agnes. "Xavier knows many people. Probably too many. And yes, we know Jade. She's a dear friend of ours from even before the occupation. She's why you're enjoying that lovely cup of coffee. I promise, your friends are in good hands and we'll take you over to meet her and her guests soon perhaps. We don't want to draw attention to the fact that guests arrived on the same day." She wipes her hands on her dress. "We also help get Jews out of France. So you may have company here some nights."

  "That must be dangerous."

  "It is, but they usually only stay one night before they head to the next house. Our church gets in touch with us the day before when our home is needed, so we'll have some warning if you'd prefer to stay elsewhere."

  "No. No, it's fine." Why would I stay elsewhere? It's not like I came here expecting to be safe. Do they mean if I hate Jews?

  Agnes speaks up, breaking the awkward moment. "We'll be eating soon, but if you'd like to rest until then, please feel free."

  For some reason tears sting my eyes. Being cared for like this—it's something new. It makes me gruff. "Thanks. I think I'll do that."

  A beautiful painting catches my eye before I leave the room. It's familiar, but different. A man with my coloring in some sort of flowing robe on his knees in a garden. I jump at Agnes's voice right by my shoulder.

  "Our father painted it. He would rant and rave about the fair-skinned blue-eyed Jesus always depicted in paintings. So he made his own." Her smile is soft and sad. She's still staring at it when I close the bedroom door.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  VIOLA

  I’m on the first shift, so I bring a journal and pen Jade let me borrow, and put on a skirt and shirt with a scarf wrapped around my head to hide my still short hair. It's started to grow out from when I cut it to pose as my brother, but not nearly enough to make me unrecognizable. I settle on the ground against a tree a few meters down from the headquarters where I still have a good line of sight. I tuck my ugly legs underneath my skirt so they aren't showing.

  The plus of being in Paris is, in so many ways the community moves on even under occupation. Hitler wants Paris to be the same, a place for him to show off. It makes me sitting here scribbling in a journal completely normal. Most of the people here, especially the rich and the artists, seem to have little problem with the new government. I guess since they're still comfortable, it isn't effecting them, they don't care.

  And it makes me a little ill.

  Though maybe it shouldn't.

  Maybe if I hadn't had a sick brother being sent to his death and suffered all the consequences of trying to stop it, I'd still be comfortable at home, away from the city being bombed, and living my life.

  I feel like Rivka, who is always scrawling new recipe ideas or poems in her journal. Her family sent her to college in Palestine where she ended up joining the paratroopers, but all she wants to be is a poet or a chef. A single tear drips to the pages, smearing the ink. Will she still be able and want to do those things when she gets out of the hell she's in?

  All sorts of people stroll or walk by with purpose, but they give 84 Avenue Foch a wide berth, everyone aware of what goes on in there. My mouth dries out thinking about what could have or could be happening to people in there. The rumors are terrifying. Electrical shock, ripping out fingernails, beatings, rape, drowning. My fingers grip my pen so hard, a painful imprint is left on my hand.

  I don't want to live in this world.

  I peek past the edge of my scarf, the black wrought iron fences looming and twisting up before the tan building, imposing even on such a pretty day. The building is stunning which makes it all the more disturbing thinking of what goes on inside, the ugliness hidden away by black gates and gorgeous stone. I shiver under the bright sun beating on my neck.

  A group of Germans head my way, their grey uniforms proclaiming them, Gestapo. They laugh and talk like they're on their way back from a meal, like nothing is wrong. Like they aren't demons straight from hell.

  I tear my gaze away from them and back down to my journal, continuing the short story I'm trying to write. Some silly romance. I've never been in love so I'm using every cliche out there. Pure nonsense. I'm a horrible writer, no matter how much I enjoy reading, but if anyone checks it can't be blank or nonsensical scribbles.

  My eyes cut to the side and a little tension bleeds from me. They pay me no attention, and will pass me in seconds. Not knowing what to write next, I cross out a few words, like I was unhappy with them. My writing French isn't as good as my speaking French, but it can be explained by handwriting and I doubt anyone but a Frenchman would notice anyway. Again, I peek, and my heart stops. They're headed straight for me, faces set in grim lines. What gave me away? Am I too close
to their HQ and it raises suspicions?

  Two deep breaths in and out and I raise my head with a smile. "Hello."

  "Papers, please." His French is good, but heavily accented.

  "Of course." I force my trembling hands still as I reach into my pocket and hand them over. Please, please, please. Please don't notice they're forgeries.

  The one who spoke takes them and frowns as he flips through and hands them back. "What are you doing?"

  "I'm working on a short story." Goosebumps race across my skin. Thank God my voice didn't shake.

  His cold eyes burrow right through me, like icy winds in the tundra "Let me see."

  I force a bravado I don't feel. "Oh, all right. But, it's a rough draft so it's not very good. I haven't shown it to anyone." I want to run away, screaming in terror.

  "Give it," he commands. This is like coming face to face with the devil.

  My body tenses as I hand it to him, certain he can hear my heart trying to burst straight through my chest or see the pulse fluttering madly in my neck. Please, God, don't let me faint. He flips through my journal with the same frown on his face, the three other officers standing a few steps behind him, merely watching. My slippery palms rest in my lap, not wanting to wipe them off in case it gives me away. His lips twist in contempt and he slams my journal shut, tossing it to the ground in front of me.

  Without another word, he spins on his heels and stalks away, the others falling into step behind him. Once they're out of sight, I slump back against the tree, my trembling fingers adjusting my scarf. I suck deep through my nose, forcing calm through my veins, digging the bracelet into my skin, the pain grounding me. He was so stern and terrifying. The patrol in the woods were younger and more like real people.

  The rumors calling the Gestapo monsters make complete sense.

  My fingers clutch the pen as I try to think of what to write next. I wish I could write my mum and Sebastian the letter, but I still have no idea what to say. A quote from one of my favorite books would be perfect. Margaret Hale's letter to her friend in North and South.

  "I wish I could tell you how lonely I am. How cold and harsh it is here. Everywhere there is conflict and unkindness. I think God has forsaken this place. I believe I have seen hell and it's white, it's snow-white."

  I wish I had the book with me. Or something by Dickens. I could use their comfort. Maybe Jade has a copy in her library.

  I check my watch. Fifteen minutes and I can leave. No sight of any transport from Fresnes. My fingers draw shaky shapes and doodles on the paper, no longer able to focus on my silly story.

  My head jerks up at the sound of a loud engine. There. A prison transport. I won't be able to see who gets out, they're already through the gate. I snap my journal closed and rise, walking along, arms swinging in nonchalance past the HQ. The last prisoner disappears through the door and I memorize her face.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  AUDREY

  I sit at the cafe. Miraculously, Agnes and Jacqueline happened to have a copy of The Hobbit, so at least I have the one book I like to read. Viola turned her nose up at it when I told her it's my favorite. She said it's a children's book. She probably hasn't read a children's book since she was five. She talked Shirley into letting her bring a French copy of Les Miserables with her, lugging it all over France. I guess now it's lost and probably splattered with blood. I shudder at the thought of the monstrous book. Daft cow. It's the most sinfully boring book ever written. When I was fourteen, my tutor quit right after I threw it at his head for trying to make me read it. He was such a pompous prat.

  I tighten the scarf around my face, and sit in a shadowed corner of the sidewalk outside the cafe. Hopefully my Hollywood style sunglasses aren't suspicious. Anything to try and hide my too tan skin. It's memorable and there's a little fear I'll be mistaken for a Gypsy. The Nazis hate them too.

  Who don't the Nazi's hate?

  A girl walks up to my table. "What can I get for you?"

  "Coffee with...uh coffee, please." I curse myself. I almost asked for a coffee with milk. There's no such thing here anymore. Not with rationing.

  Her brows furrow, but she doesn't say anything, just turns and walks back inside. I swallow my worry and open the book, trying not to get swept away by dragons and adventures, and keep my eye out for any prison transports.

  Why are they bringing prisoners here instead of interrogating them at Fresnes? Or do they only bring the ones they deem more important? It makes no sense. Realizing I'm frowning at the street, I bury my face back into the book, counting to twelve and raising my eyes to do a quick sweep, counting to thirty and turn a page.

  One by one, people leave and arrive at the cafe and I continue to sit. How much longer do I have? This must be suspicious, me sitting here apparently with nowhere else to go. I remind myself, I'm a rich girl bored with the country and am in Paris to visit my aunts. I'm on holiday. If a soldier checks my papers, that's exactly what I'll say.

  The rumbling of a trolley brings my gaze up from the book on number seven. Looks like more prisoners just like Viola saw.

  The trolley comes into sight and passes the cafe, driving another few meters and stopping at the HQ, waiting for the black iron gates to welcome them into hell. I wish I could take my glasses off to see better, but I don't want anyone to notice where my gaze is pointed. Three men pile out from the front of the trolley and two more join them from the gate, weapons at the ready. I suck in my lips to fight the grin. Looks like the prisoners have been giving them a hard time.

  Good.

  They unlock the back and a woman stumbles out first, squinting in the bright sunlight. Even this far away across the street I can see the bruise marring her cheek and the caked blood on the collar of her blouse. The pages of The Hobbit crumple under my palms. Bastards. The next out is a man, and he glares at the Jerry gripping her arm. He gets a rifle butt in the ribs for his trouble.

  Air wheezes into my nose and I half rise from the table, but I'm pulled into a rough embrace. "Act like you know me."

  What the hell is going on? I wrap my arms around him, squeezing a little harder than necessary and watch over his shoulder, but everyone from the trolley has already disappeared inside the HQ.

  After a kiss on both cheeks he pushes me back, and takes the seat across from mine. He’s not much older than me, dark hair and eyes, sun-kissed skin, a cocky smile twitching his lips. It's the bloody driver from our first night here.

  Remaining poised for flight, I perch on the edge of my chair and smile with false happiness. "What are you doing here? I thought you couldn't make it."

  Approval shines from his eyes. "I was able to get away."

  I toss my hair. I don't need his approval. "Good for me, then." It takes everything in me not to throttle him and bolt.

  He reaches across the table and takes one of my hands in both of his, running his fingers over my pulse until my fists unclench. "What are you reading?"

  How do I translate hobbit into French? I shrug and hand him the book, giving him a reason to release my other hand. "It's just something my friend had lying about."

  "Haven't read it." He winks at me.

  I snort. "You shouldn't. It's trash." I'm definitely not telling this madman it's my favorite book.

  His stare pierces though me. "Sure it is." How old is he? One minute I would've sworn he was my age with his twinkling blue eyes, but now he seems older.

  Breaking his gaze I grab my cup, take a sip of cold ersatz coffee, and force it down. It's worse drinking it today after getting a taste of the real thing last night. "Are you going to order?"

  He leans across the table on his elbows. "No. We won't be here much longer."

  A shiver runs up my spine at one possible meaning of his words. "Oh really?" I thought I was supposed to stay until Lois gets here.

  His eyes narrow. "Yes. Really. It's covered."

  "I'm ready whenever you are." I want answers. Now.

  A massive smile spreads across his face, a long d
imple appearing right over his cheekbone. There he is, younger again. "Well, let's go then." He stands and holds out his arm for me to take.

  We walk several blocks before either one of us speaks, strolling along like a happy couple in love. Glancing at each other and smiling, keeping no space between our bodies, laughing softly.

  After making a couple random turns and determining we’re not being tailed, I grab his finger and bend it back. Just a little. Just enough to make it ache. "What the hell was that?"

  He grunts, but still smiles down at me. "That was me keeping you from mucking up the whole thing. Xavier warned me about you. That you're impetuous and easily angered." He gestures with his head at the finger I hold captive. "It seems he was right."

  Fury flushes through me, red edging my vision. "I wasn't going to muck up anything."

  "Then why were you starting to stand and all but growling?"

  "I was not growling." My feet stumble on the cobblestones.

  He frowns and shakes his head. "You were being obvious. And we can't afford that."

  "Who the hell are you?" I barely keep from shouting.

  He smiles and does a strange bow type movement with his head. "I'm Theo. I'm in Xavier's network. He sent me to pass along a message. He needs Elodie to come over to his flat. He has a mission for her."

  "What mission?" Without me? I don't think so.

  "I wasn't told." He sounds as annoyed with the lack of information as I am, but he keeps his face covered with fake love.

  I tilt my head and smile. "Why are you telling me?"

  "Because he wouldn't tell me where you are staying. He said it was too dangerous for anyone else to know."

  Bloody hell, Xavier is one paranoid fellow. "Who's watching the headquarters now?"

  "He brought in someone else because the girl next on shift is part of the mission as well."