Jean-Claude screamed. A stream of his urine hit the floor, puddling under the chair. The ammonia stench instantly overrode the dank smell of the cellar where the three of them had been taken.
Lying in a bloody, bruised heap on the cold floor in the shadows near the wall, Lillian retched, a dry heave that brought up nothing. That was because she’d already vomited up everything in her stomach when they’d beaten her for trying to get away from them, for fighting to reach Paul.
Oh, Paul. By now, some eighteen hours after the blood had come spurting out of his chest, reality had set in. He was gone. She was riven with grief. She could not live. Death was no longer something she feared. It was something she longed for, so she could continue on with him. Images of the past, happy images—her with Paul, her with her little girls, the four of them together, gathered around the table for a meal, splashing in the surf at the beach, laughing together always as the loving, close family they’d been in the good days before the world fell apart—flashed in and out of her mind. They were both a comfort and a torment.
“Now we will talk, yes?” The interrogator leaned in, smiling amiably as he picked up Jean-Claude’s damaged hand. With his forearm chained to the chair so that his hand dangled over the end of its arm, Jean-Claude could only curl his uninjured fingers in a futile attempt at protecting them.
The German continued, “You know the penalty for what you have done is death, do you not? But perhaps I will be merciful. If you tell me what I want to know. But I warn you—do not lie to me.”
“No, no, I would not lie,” Jean-Claude gasped.
“Are you a loyal subject of the regime?” He stroked a caressing thumb over the back of Jean-Claude’s hand.
“Y-yes,” Jean-Claude quavered. He panted rather than breathed. Fear had rendered his eyes round as coins.
“You lie.” The interrogator’s tone turned vicious. Grabbing Jean-Claude’s ring finger, he yanked off another nail.
Jean-Claude screamed and flailed to the extent he could while bound so tightly to the chair. Eyes closed, Andre poured sweat and muttered prayers under his breath. Lillian lay where they had dumped her, broken in body and soul.
For Jean-Claude and Andre, she felt a profound sadness. They still wished to live. She doubted they would, any of them, beyond this night.
They asked Jean-Claude his name. Where he lived. He answered both questions in a trembling voice. Who lived there with him. He hesitated to answer that one. Lillian completely understood. He was devoted to his old mother, and he feared for her. The Nazis were known to ruthlessly torture and execute whole families if one member was discovered to belong to the Resistance.
They took the pliers to another nail. He screamed out his mother’s name as they yanked it off, then dropped his head and between sobs moaned, “Mother, forgive me.”
“Who do you know in the Resistance?” The interrogator was a German officer, a small man with a pale, pinched face. Another German officer, arms crossed over his chest, looked on. He was taller than the other man, tall enough so that his head came close to brushing the low, beamed ceiling. His back was turned to Lillian as he focused on Jean-Claude.
Jean-Claude stuttered in his haste to name names. He gave up everyone in the Resistance that he knew. Fortunately, he knew by name only her, Paul, Andre and one other. That was their way, their rule. One’s own cell, and a contact. In case of an arrest, it prevented the whole network from being brought down.
The contact he named—Eugene Ingres—had been killed the previous week in a botched attempt to blow up a train trestle. The Nazis knew that and repaid Jean-Claude for his proffering of useless information by ripping off another nail.
Lillian knew that, too, because Paul had been informed of Ingres’s death, and Paul had shared what he knew with her as naturally as he breathed. It was she who kept secrets, while he was as open as a sunny day.
Had been. Paul had been as open as a sunny day.
Acknowledging the past tense left her gutted.
“This attack they say is coming, this invasion by the Allies—” the interrogator sneered as he said the word “—what do you know of it?”
Lillian tensed at the question. Jean-Claude knew nothing of the planned invasion beyond the rumors that were flying through the general population. Neither did Andre. The whole world seemed to know an attack was coming, but in France only a select few at the highest levels of the Resistance had been told anything concrete. Those few who had been briefed included—had included—Paul. And because Paul had known, so did she.
It was why they had been gathering samples of sand: to test if they contained enough rock particles to enable the beach to bear the weight of tanks and other heavy equipment when they rolled ashore. If the beach sand could not stand up to the weight, the tanks and vehicles would bog down in sand that was too fine and be rendered useless. It was why they had been taking photographs and mapping minefields. The Allied invasion was near, just as the Nazis feared, and contrary to what they were being led to believe—misinformation was being planted everywhere—it was to begin here, on the beaches of Normandy.
When the bastards got to her, how long would she be able to keep silent? She would not, could not, reveal what she knew.
But this horror they were perpetrating on Jean-Claude... She was human. She did not think she could withstand such torture for long.
She began to tremble. Even that tiny degree of movement hurt, but there was nothing she could do to stop it.
She did not fear death. She did fear pain, mutilation, abasement. Almost as much as she feared betraying her country by giving up the secret that had been entrusted to Paul.
Paul, you have to help me. Please come for me. I want to go with you.
But despite her fervent plea, her heart continued to beat, and she continued to breathe.
Voice faltering, Jean-Claude said, “I know nothing. Only what I have heard. Rumors, you understand. That an invasion is coming. Perhaps. No one can say for sure.”
The interrogator leaned closer, moving the pliers threateningly up and down centimeters from Jean-Claude’s body. Jean-Claude panted and shook as he followed the movement of those pliers with his eyes. Four of his fingernails were gone now. Those fingers ended in raw stumps that dripped blood. Beneath the glaring spotlight, he looked skeletal, his bones showing through his skin, which was the grayish-white of a corpse.
Darting in with fiendish swiftness, the pliers latched onto his right nipple, squeezed and twisted. Jean-Claude shrieked.
The pliers was withdrawn, only to hover threateningly over Jean-Claude’s other nipple.
“You will tell me where this invasion is coming, and when.”
Chest heaving as he sobbed, Jean-Claude tried to shrink away from the tool’s bloodied metal tip. The upright chair was unforgiving, holding him in place.
“I know nothing—” Jean-Claude’s voice went shrill as the pliers touched his skin, caressed it. “No, no, wait, I have heard—Pas-de-Calais. We have all heard it is to be at Pas-de-Calais.”
Pas-de-Calais was wrong, a deliberate piece of misinformation spread through double agents and suspected informers so assiduously that it was being whispered everywhere. As he said it, she saw the light: when they turned to her, Pas-de-Calais was the answer she must school herself to give, in extremis, no matter what.
God grant me strength.
“How do you know this?”
From the corner of her eye, Lillian saw that Andre was shaking in his chair.
“I—I—” Jean-Claude faltered. “As I said, it is a rumor. I—”
The pliers darted in, grabbed Jean-Claude’s other nipple, twisted and yanked, pulling off a bloody chunk of flesh. His shriek hurt her eardrums, caused her heart to leap into her throat and turned her stomach inside out with a terrible mix of pity and fear.
Blood ran down his chest, tracing a bright red li
ne through the dark hairs that grew there. He sobbed in great hiccuping gasps.
“I have no time to waste on rumors. Who would know the truth?” The pliers returned to grip the first nipple, now red and engorged. “Who?”
“No, no, do not, I beg you! I will tell you all! Madame!” His eyes shot desperately in her direction. Lillian caught her breath. The tiny hairs on the back of her neck catapulted upright in horror at what he might be about to say. He knew how she and Paul had been. “Madame, forgive me—”
He broke off, choking on a sob. Tears poured down his cheeks.
The pliers twisted.
“She knows!” Jean-Claude arched screaming in his chair. The sound bounced off the stone walls, the ceiling, the floor, so loud and horrifying it made even the interrogator wince.
And then it stopped, just like that, cutting off from one second to the next. Jean-Claude gasped, only once. His eyes rolled back in his head. His face went pale and slack. Mouth still open wide, he slumped sideways in his chair. Drool spilled from the corner of his mouth.
There was a moment of shocked silence. Even Andre ceased his muttered prayers.
“You—what have you done? He was talking!” The second German shoved the first out of the way as he leaped toward Jean-Claude, checking his pulse, lifting his eyelids. He’d reverted to German, but she knew enough of the language to pick up the meaning. “His heart has stopped! You’ve killed him, you fool!”
“Is it my fault that he was weak? That his heart was weak?” The interrogator slapped Jean-Claude’s face, slammed his fist into his chest. “Wake up, blöder Hund!” Then, urgently, to his compatriot, he said, “Help me get him on the floor.” Cursing each other, shouting for reinforcements from upstairs, they got Jean-Claude out of the chair and laid him out on the floor. A quartet of soldiers clattered down to join them, but it was soon clear that there was nothing to be done.
Jean-Claude was dead. His heart had given out, from fear or pain or some combination of the two.
Lillian could not help thinking that, of the three of them, he was the fortunate one.
Dizzy with sorrow and fear, she closed her eyes as his limp body was carried upstairs. Sweat drenched her. She was cold, so cold.
When they came back...
Please, Paul, please come, please, please, please.
“Baroness!” Andre whispered. He had to repeat her name twice before his voice broke through the haze of despair that gripped her.
She opened her eyes. They were alone in the cellar.
Andre said, “In the corner. The bleach. Baroness. Can you reach it?”
Lillian frowned, then followed the direction of his eyes to a small table in the corner. Flanked by a bucket and mops, it held what looked like cleaning supplies. The ever meticulous Germans were prepared to tidy up after torturing their victims, it seemed.
“The blue container. Bring it to me. Hurry.”
The urgency of Andre’s voice communicated itself to her. Enlightenment dawned. She didn’t need to ask him why: she knew.
It was a way out. My God, how has it come to this? She took a deep, steadying breath.
Alone of the three of them, she’d been left unbound, whether because she was a woman and was therefore not considered a threat or because of the extent of the injuries they had inflicted on her, she didn’t know.
“They’ll be back at any minute.” Andre’s hoarse warning came as she dragged herself to her feet. Her coat was gone. Her sweater and trousers were torn and filthy. She could hardly stand and had to lean against the wall, scooting along it to reach the table. Moving brought shafts of pain. She gritted her teeth and kept going. Her right arm—was it broken? It didn’t matter. She picked up the container of bleach with her left hand, then shuffled toward Andre.
“Lord, have mercy on me, a sinner,” Andre prayed as she reached him. His eyes opened. To her he said, “Hold it so I can drink.”
She got the lid off, managed to get the container to his lips. Their eyes met. His were cloudy with tears, dark with desperation.
Afraid. Just as she was afraid.
But what choice was left to them?
He tilted his head back, bade her continue with a gesture.
“God be with you, my friend,” she whispered, and tilted the container so that the contents poured into his open mouth. He gulped mightily once, twice, as the bleach fumes assaulted her nose and made her eyes burn. Then he jerked his head away and began to choke and struggle, fighting the terrible effects of the chemical. White foam bubbled from his mouth, dripped down his chin. He made horrible sounds as his body spasmed, fighting the chains, convulsing in the chair.
She fell back, overcome with horror, with fear.
I can’t—
The sound of booted footsteps on the stairs made her glance around.
“What the hell...?” The interrogator, with the other officer behind him, came into view. He stopped halfway down the stairs, his expression changing ludicrously as he took in the situation with a glance.
Her eyes met his. For the space of perhaps a heartbeat, an image arose in her mind of her girls, not grown as they were now, but the little ones they had been, one fair, one dark, each reaching out to her.
Maman—
Goodbye, she told them silently. I love you.
Tears stung her eyes. Her heart slammed in her chest. She lifted the bottle.
“Stop!” he shouted at her, leaping down the remaining stairs. With the other officer barreling after him, he hit the floor running.
Summoning every last bit of courage that remained to her, Lillian put the bottle of bleach to her lips and drank.
Chapter Five
“Smile,” Max hissed in Genevieve’s ear as they walked in the door. The servant who’d admitted them had turned away to open the door to someone else, so they were essentially alone in the entry hall. “You’re one of them, remember. Part of the elite group. That’s how we get this done.”
By them, he was referring to the collaborators, those with whom the Germans socialized, who cozied up to them, who were living high off their association with them while the rest of the country, the rest of Europe, suffered. In other words, including the Germans themselves, who were even worse, practically everyone at the party.
“I am smiling.”
“You look like you sucked on a lemon.”
“I told you I don’t feel well. It’s the best I can do.”
“Try harder.”
Drawing back her lips, she bared her teeth in an enormous grin. Just to show him.
“There you go. Beauty personified.” He chucked her under her chin, which he knew full well would annoy her. Then he left her to see to the safe disposal of their coats. She scowled after him before turning to brave the party on her own. As she was greeted by their host, the Spanish consul, General Eduardo Castellano, and his wife, Sophie, and drawn into the small group of guests nearest the foyer, Genevieve managed to put the true purpose of her presence out of her head. Despite a headache that beat like a drum against her temples, she summoned up a dazzling smile that she hoped looked more genuine than it felt and set herself to being charming.
“We were enchanted by your wonderful performance. My wife was in tears, I give you my word!”
“Where did you train, my dear? Such an extraordinary voice!”
“Can you believe this weather? So cold this week, and now this terrible rain!”
“After Paris, where does your tour take you? Will you leave France?”
“If she is lucky, it will be someplace warmer.”
Feeling like her smile was growing more rigid by the minute, Genevieve circulated, exchanged air-kisses, answered questions, made small talk and held on as if for dear life to the smooth, hard stem of the champagne flute someone had thoughtfully provided her with a few minutes before. The possible effects of overindul
gence she’d experienced earlier had faded, leaving her feeling as sober as a park bench. Which was good, because the only way she was going to make it through the rest of this night was with the help of liquid fortification.
She glanced around for Max and failed to find him. Whatever he was doing—and she doubted it was limited to supervising the bestowal of their coats—was taking him far too long. Tonight of all nights she needed him with her to parry the questions, to deflect the curious stares, to stand between her and the effusive interest bombarding her on all sides. The glittering star persona she assumed for such gatherings was firmly in place, but inside she was a quivering mess. Not because of Anna, or what had happened the previous night or even the danger of this job he had coerced her into, or at least not primarily because of those things. There was still an hour remaining in what was for her this most dreaded of days: May 16, the date of one little girl’s birth, and another little girl’s death.
She would dearly love to be able to blot both events from her consciousness, but she was beginning to think that no matter what she did, forgetting was never going to be possible. On this of all days, the past would not leave her alone. Her wound was buried deep, but it was still there, still raw and painful. Holding Anna in her arms had been the equivalent of rubbing salt in it. The only thing that made her grief even remotely bearable was that no one who was in her life now knew anything about it, so there was no one to note the significance of the day, no one to mark it or remind her. The memories, and the pain, were hers alone.
Just a little longer, and she would be through it.
“Mademoiselle Dumont, I was fortunate enough to hear you sing at Neue Burg in Vienna last summer.”
“He cherishes the photograph he took with you there, showing it to all of us whenever he wants to feel superior.”
The German officers in front of her were large, blond and bucolic, very polite, as were all the invaders: the Wehrmacht had been ordered to treat the French with dignity to avoid arousing the hatred of the populace. Even now that the war was going less well for them, with North Africa fallen to the Allies, Sicily conquered, the Russians routing the Germans on the eastern front, massive bombing raids on German cities and whispers of a looming Allied invasion of France being bandied about everywhere, their good manners did not fail.
The Black Swan of Paris Page 5
