“Will you kindly follow me?” It was more of a command than a request.
He threw a few coins on the counter and then steered Slim out of the café, his hand still securely on her elbow, guiding her out.
“What is this about, Mr. . . . ?”
“You’ll find out when we get to the embassy, Miss Moran.”
Before Slim could protest, the man led her forcefully into the back of a black sedan. From the corner of her eye, she caught the eye of Estrella, the sales clerk from Gucci. She was holding her forgotten package and was walking toward the car. When she saw the expression on Slim’s face and then the man’s hand on her mouth, Estrella realized what was happening and started chasing the car as it sped off.
The man took his palm off Slim’s mouth.
“You can’t just kidnap me—” Slim protested.
“You are not being kidnapped. We just wish to have a word with you.”
“Who’s we? Who are you?”
The man ignored her questions during the quick ride back up the hill toward her hotel. The car pulled in through the gate of the American Embassy, and two US Marines quickly opened the doors and yanked Slim out. She wondered if she could somehow make a run for it—after all, her hotel was just next door. Before she could try or even scream, she was led through the back door of the embassy down the stairs into what Slim presumed was the basement, then into a room with one small gated window. The door was shut, and she was left alone in a small cell with a metal table and two chairs.
Seconds, minutes, and then an hour ticked by. Her mind ran through all the possible reasons why she was here, but she really couldn’t fathom what they wanted with her. Her case with Marie Claire had to do with the British, not the Americans. Maybe Daniel could find her, but they had fought, and she didn’t know if he was still in Italy. Perhaps Estrella would be able to help her since she seemed to realize what was happening.
Her eyes scanned the room again until they caught the drain on the floor, and a frightening realization came over her. Was she going to be tortured until blood flowed from her body into the drain? She looked around again desperately for a means of escape. The transom caught her attention; if she could figure out how to open it, maybe she could get out. But it was too high for her to reach. Perhaps if she moved the desk over to the window and climbed onto it, she could reach the transom and might pry it open.
Before she could even try, the door opened.
Two men entered. One was her abductor, and the other was an older man. She tried to catch sight of him, but he moved into a corner and was hidden by a shadow.
“Miss Moran, sorry to keep you waiting. I’m Phillip DeLaurentis, and this is my colleague.” Slim noticed that he deliberately withheld the older man’s name.
“What do you want with me?”
“Please sit down, Miss Moran.” DeLaurentis waited for Slim to sit and then sat down as well. The man in the corner stood hidden in the darkness.
“I will cut to the chase.”
“You have no right to kidnap me. I am an American citizen.”
“Kidnap you? What are you talking about? We just want to speak to you,” DeLaurentis said with feigned incredulity.
“You took me out of that café forcefully and against my will.”
“Now, now, I realize that you’re the daughter of an actor, but there is no reason to be overly dramatic,” DeLaurentis said condescendingly.
“What do you want with me?” Slim was beginning to sweat.
“We’d like to know where Daniel Cohen is.”
“Daniel Cohen?” Slim asked.
“The Jew is your boyfriend, isn’t he?” the man from the shadows spat out with a discernible German accent.
“We want to know where Daniel Cohen is,” DeLaurentis repeated.
“Why?”
DeLaurentis pulled out a crumpled packet of cigarettes and offered Slim one. She declined; the thought of smoking sent a wave nausea rising from her belly.
“Daniel Cohen is wanted for the murder of an American soldier in Karlsruhe,” the man in the corner said.
Slim didn’t respond.
“Our sources also tell us that you were with Daniel Cohen in Karlsruhe the night of the murder.”
Slim waited and then finally admitted, “Yes, I was there.”
“Why were you in Karlsruhe?” DeLaurentis asked.
“I was there to see Daniel,” Slim lied.
“That’s it?”
“Why else would I be in Karlsruhe? It’s a hellhole,” she said, trying to sound convincing. “I went out for a walk. I got lost. A German man tried to rape me. An American soldier came to my aid, and the German shot him. Daniel heard my screams and killed the German.”
“That’s your explanation for the murder?” DeLaurentis asked.
“Yes. Now may I go?”
“No, you may not go,” DeLaurentis said.
“Why not?” Slim was starting to get scared. What was going on? Why were they keeping her here?
“There wasn’t a dead German found on the scene,” the man in the corner said.
“Yes, there was, and he tried to rape me.”
“Miss Moran, here’s what we think happened. You met Daniel in Karlsruhe for a tryst. He took you to the bar for dinner; you started flirting with an American soldier, and by the way, we have witnesses to back that up,” DeLaurentis said.
“Yes, the American soldier asked me for a light. That’s it, and yes, Daniel did come over, and he wasn’t happy that I was talking to him.” Slim realized that she and Daniel were being watched that night.
“And you made a date to meet the soldier the next evening,” DeLaurentis said.
“That’s not true,” Slim protested.
“He picked you up in his jeep, and your boyfriend, Daniel Cohen, followed you both, and when he discovered you in a compromising position, he shot the American soldier,” the man in the corner said.
“There was a German, and he tried to rape me!” Slim protested.
“Miss Moran—”
“That’s what happened.”
DeLaurentis grabbed Slim’s hand gently with his left hand and then with the other held his lit cigarette close to her palm. “Now I am going to ask you again. Where is Daniel Cohen?”
“I don’t know.” Slim tried to pull her hand away, but before she could, he stubbed his cigarette out, searing her flesh. She screamed in pain.
“OK, she’s all yours,” he said, and the man behind him emerged from the shadows.
Slim looked up and recognized him immediately from the photo Daniel had shown her on the train to Karlsruhe. It was Klaus Barbie, the Butcher of Lyon.
She woke up on the floor. She wasn’t sure if hours or days had passed. She recalled being taken into the room, questioned by a man named DeLaurentis, and then tortured by Barbie. What had she told them? She tried to piece together the interrogation. Had she said anything about Marie Claire or even, God forbid, Gudrun? Had she told them why she was in Rome or what she knew about the ratline? Barbie had not asked about Marie Claire; they only wanted to know about Daniel. They wanted to get him so they could stop him from killing the former Gestapo members who were now doing counterintelligence work against the Soviets for the United States. Did she tell Barbie that she had last seen Daniel at the Excelsior? Yes, she had, after Barbie placed a canvas hood over her head and poured a pitcher of water down her throat. What would happen now?
She moved her legs. They weren’t broken. Next, her arms—they felt sore, probably from trying to break free from the restraints tied around her. Her thighs felt sticky, like they were caked with something, blood perhaps. Had she been raped? She didn’t think so. She just remembered the pitchers of water and the sensation of drowning. But why was blood between her legs? She looked at the transom window to see if she could break through it and perhaps shout for help. They couldn’t just leave her here to die. Could they? Why would they? She couldn’t tell them anything if she was dead.
Pushing
her hands against the floor, she tried to push herself up, but she was too weak. Her mouth was parched, which was ironic because so much water had been poured down her throat. If only she had created a scene when she had been pulled out of the café. If only she had shouted, perhaps Estrella would have realized what was happening sooner and could have gotten help.
She heard a buzzing noise and saw the shadow of a fly hovering around her thighs. She closed her eyes and slept some more.
The sound of running footsteps awakened her as the door forcefully swung open, and light from the hallway flooded the room.
“Slim?” Daniel asked as he bent down.
“Daniel, he’ll kill you if he finds you here.” Her teeth were chattering. She was unspeakably cold.
“Who?”
“Barbie.”
Daniel gathered Slim into his arms.
“Daniel, allonsy!” a voice behind him said urgently.
“Who is with you?” Slim asked hoarsely.
“Efraim. Now shush.” He picked her up and carried her into the hallway.
“Daniel, they’re coming,” Efraim said as they ran down the hall.
“Efraim, which way?”
“Go straight. I’ll follow,” Efraim said, out of breath.
Slim heard the sound of American voices shouting as Daniel ran with Slim in his arms.
“Go left now, Daniel—the door is above. It should still be open.”
Daniel ran left through the tunnel, carrying Slim. He pushed open the door and ran through it with her. They were in the kitchen of the Excelsior Hotel. A member of the staff enveloped Slim in a sheet and put her under a room-service cart.
“Signora, keep your legs to your chin. We will get you out of here.”
“Efraim!” Daniel shouted.
“I’m coming, Daniel. I’m . . .” Gunshots interrupted his last sentence. Slim saw two waiters restraining Daniel.
“You cannot go after him, Daniel. You are too valuable. Get him on a cart! Pronto!” one of them shouted.
Daniel was pushed underneath a cart, and a tablecloth was thrown over each of them. They were wheeled outside and put into a van. The doors to the van were shut, and it sped away. During the ride, Daniel said nothing. Slim reached out for Daniel’s hand. He pulled her toward him and enveloped her.
“Slim, I’m so sorry I left you like that.”
“How did you find me?”
“I came back to the hotel, and you weren’t there. The man at the front desk told me that you probably were at the Gucci store. He said he’d taken a message for you yesterday that your shoes were ready. So I went down to the store, and a saleswoman there, Estrella, said that she saw you being forced into a car with American flags. She knew that car could only be from the embassy.”
Thank God for Estrella, Slim thought. If she hadn’t seen her being kidnapped, Daniel wouldn’t have found her.
“Daniel, they think you killed the American soldier at Karlsruhe.”
“That’s not why they want me.”
“Why do they want you?”
“Barbie wants me because he knows that I’m after him. I’m sure the American Embassy doesn’t even know you were taken there.”
“I’m sorry about Efraim.”
“He and I survived Auschwitz together.”
“Maybe he’ll get out.”
“He won’t. Let’s just hope he’s dead because if he’s not, we’re dead.”
They drove for a half hour more, and then the van stopped. It was dusk when the doors opened. Slim looked around at the beige brick and instantly knew where they were.
After Daniel carried her into the convent, Slim felt Margaret immediately grab her hand. Her friend ushered them both into a spartan room on the ground floor. Daniel laid Slim gingerly on a cot. An older nun came in with a doctor’s bag. She spoke quietly to Daniel, who nodded, shut the door, and left.
“Sister Helen was a nurse in the war. She’s going to examine you,” Margaret explained as the nun pulled back the bloodied sheet covering Slim.
“Sister Margaret, I need to you to take a pair of scissors and cut away the skirt while I disinfect my hands.”
“Yes, Sister Helen,” Margaret said, taking a pair of sewing shears from her fellow nun. She cut open Slim’s stained skirt and then gasped at the bloodied mass between her legs.
“Miss Moran, do you think you might have been pregnant?” Sister Helen asked, and when Slim did not answer, she added, “My dear child, I am not here to judge you, but I need to know if you think you might have been pregnant.”
“No, it’s not possible. Six years ago, after my fiancé disappeared in a bombing raid over Germany, I had a botched abortion. I was told I couldn’t have children.” She felt Margaret’s eyes on her and looked away.
“Slim, why did you keep that to yourself? You know I would’ve helped you,” Margaret said, grabbing Slim’s arm.
“Miss Moran, you were pregnant, and I am sad to tell you that you’ve lost the baby. Now listen to me: I am going to give you a shot of morphine and clean you up.”
Slim felt tears fall from the corners of her eyes as she winced at the pinprick of a needle in her arm.
Daniel was by her side when she opened her eyes. He stroked her cheek.
“I lost the baby.”
“We can have another if you want.”
“But I also slept with that Russian prince.”
“Let’s not talk about that,” he said, kissing her hand.
“I thought you wanted me only for my money,” Slim said.
“That’s a terrible thing to say.” Daniel sighed.
“I don’t know whether you love me or not.” Slim wanted to be more expressive, but her words sounded so pedestrian and trite.
“Slim, I do love you.”
“But you never show me. You keep everything hidden from me. Françoise said you didn’t work in a munitions factory at Auschwitz. Were you a Sonderkommando?”
Daniel stroked Slim’s hair. “No, I didn’t work in the crematorium. I was a barber.”
“That’s it? You could have told me that. I mean, so you cut the commandant’s hair. Does that matter?”
“I didn’t cut the commandant’s hair.”
“Then whose hair did you cut?”
Daniel kissed her hands. “I can’t tell you.”
“You must, or there’s no future for us.”
“Then perhaps it is time you knew.”
Chapter Twelve
Auschwitz, 1942
Daniel had been with his father and uncles for a week in Auschwitz when Tikot, the Czech block leader, asked for barbers in five different languages.
“We are. All of us, even my son. We are barbers,” Daniel’s father said, even though he had never allowed his son to learn the family profession. He wanted a scholar for a son, not a barber.
“But Papa . . .” Daniel started to protest. He had been a student at the Sorbonne until the Jews had been banned from attending.
“You are a barber like all of us,” his father hissed in his ear. “A job will keep you alive. To be needed will keep all of us alive.”
Tikot pointed at the men in Daniel’s family and said, “Come, they need you now. Four barbers died from the typhus outbreak; they need to be replaced.”
In the dawn’s light, they stumbled outside, following Tikot, who brought them over to a waiting guard and explained who they were in German. Daniel was starting to pick up bits of German, but Tikot was a real polyglot. Whatever language he overheard in his barrack, he made it his business to learn. “Information is currency,” Tikot would say as he perfected his Polish, Italian, French, and German.
The guard motioned for the four men to follow him, and Tikot walked off, secure in the knowledge that he would be rewarded later by both the Cohen men and by the guard. The chill in the late-September air made Daniel shiver as he, his father, and two uncles were led over to the gas chamber. All four of them looked at the guard, who pointed to a door. When they hesitated,
he held his rifle up, languidly waving them on with the tip jutting Daniel in the back. Hungover, he barked a half-hearted “Schnell.” There had been a party in his barracks the night before, and he, like most of the guards not on duty, had imbibed as much liquor as he could pilfer from the belongings of the new arrivals.
Daniel followed his father and two uncles through the door and down the ramp and then through another door. Inside were rows of benches, and seated upon them were a hundred naked women of all ages, some holding small children.
The guard shouted something in German, and one man scurried up to them and handed out scissors.
“What are you? Czech? German? Polish?” he asked in German.
“French,” Daniel replied, catching the gist of his question.
“The Germans need the hair. You are to clip in three motions. Get as much as you can. No more than a minute is to be spent on each woman. Afterward, they go inside, and we stay here,” the man said hurriedly in broken French.
Daniel looked at the door marked shower, and he felt suddenly sick. He knew the door led into the gas chamber.
“Papa, I can’t do this,” Daniel whispered.
His father held the point of the scissor against his son’s throat. “You can, or you will die.”
Daniel took the scissor from his father’s hand.
“If they ask anything, you tell them they are having a shower to be deloused,” the man whispered. “Everyone take a row and start.”
Daniel watched his father pick up a fistful of hair belonging to a woman who jumped at his touch. He patted her on the shoulder reassuringly and began to snip. Daniel shakily unpinned the greasy blonde locks of a teenaged girl who was shivering, even though the overflow of bodies in the room raised the temperature to almost a sauna level. Was she sick? he wondered. She sneezed, and a woman holding a baby next to her yelled at her to cover her nose. The young girl began to whimper. Daniel stopped cutting, and he placed his hands on her shoulders for a second to steady her, then started cutting again. Chunks of hair fell into the bin below his feet. When he was done, he looked at the shorn, shivering girl and was about to touch her reassuringly again when his father pushed him toward the next one.
The Lost Spy (Slim Moran Mysteries) Page 22
