Days of Winter

by Cynthia Freeman

  Silence.

  “I am asking that care be taken to see to it that he is returned safely to Paris. …”

  “We shall do all we can.”

  “I have your word on that, sir?”

  “You have impertinence to ask such a question.”

  “I’m sorry, sir, but you can understand my concern. …I’d also like to be present when the boy is brought back, returned to me …”

  “Out of the question, Dupré. Now I’m afraid you must excuse me.”

  And the line was dead.

  Kessler called Reichart at once. Magda answered the phone. “Colonel Reichart, please, Herr Kessler calling.” No amenities, or uncertainty about who was answering the telephone. Kessler and most of the German command knew Magda’s relationship with Reichart.

  Magda shook Christian awake. “Who is it?”

  “Herr Kessler.”

  Irritated at being awakened so early in the morning, Christian grabbed the receiver from Magda’s hand. When he heard the news, that the Dupré woman had escaped, he was considerably more than irritated. “Damn you, Kessler, I warn you, she had better be found—”

  “I assure you she will be, sir. We have already taken steps—”

  “To hell with your steps. Find her and stop her. …You’ve been making too many reports like this to me lately. Too many of them are getting out, it’s got to stop. …Do you follow me, Kessler?” And hung up before he could hear the “Yes, sir,” in reply from the other end of the line.

  While he’d been talking, Magda had been casually brushing her hair in front of the mirror, doing all she could to hold in the joy and relief she felt. The call had to be about Jeanette, that word had gotten to her husband and that she had managed to escape.

  “Damn it,” he was now saying, as much to himself as to her, “this is getting to be an epidemic. Where the hell are the leaks coming from? … We have tight security, we …”

  And as he talked his eye casually took in the beauty of Magda and the sensuous line of her arm and back as she combed her hair, and then strayed to his briefcase, lying open on the desk next to her dresser … his briefcase that held the papers with schedules of just such arrests as this one involving Jeanette Hack Dupré. Kessler had said they suspected the brother-in-law … none of those damn collaborators were reliable … but Reichart was beginning to have a different notion, a different and shocking and altogether humiliating one for him. …His solicitous noble-born ladyfriend with the conveniently sick husband, she had access to that briefcase at will … careful as he was, he’d allowed himself to come to trust her. She’d been with him nearly every night, had never given him a moment’s trouble or the slightest grounds for suspicion, had in fact often given him useful—if not especially important now that he thought about it—pieces of information that she had overheard at her various parties. …But come to think of it, the momentum of escapees had increased rather markedly since shortly after he’d taken up with her. …

  And then last night, the solicitous business with the bath … of course, it wasn’t so unusual, she’d been that way on more than one night, but last night she seemed especially attentive, and then the deep sleep he’d fallen into almost immediately after dinner, most unusual for him no matter how tired he was, he always took a long time to relax from the day’s tension and to fall asleep. …Of course, he’d been drugged, and by none other than his precious Countess. …

  Feeling his eyes on her, Magda slowly turned around, aware that he’d become suddenly very quiet “I know you’re upset, Christian, and I’m sorry that—”

  “I’m sorry that I can’t kill you right now—”

  “What? … That’s a rather remarkable and not very funny thing to say and—”

  “Oh, give it up. I’ve been stupid and I’ve paid for it, but at least now I know who’s been responsible. My darling, beloved countess … Well, aren’t you going to deny it? I believe that’s customary for all spies. Or are the rules different for whores?”

  Magda said nothing, merely looked steadily at him, but she felt a profound relief—the pretending, the play-acting was over. Somehow word had gotten to Jeanette and she’d escaped … and that made everything she’d gone through worthwhile. …And now, Magda Charascu, curtain coming down …

  She barely paid attention to the rest of his threats and rantings … he would kill her on the spot, would dearly love to, but that would be too easy for her. …He was on the phone, making arrangements to have guards sent at once before he left, and then telling her if she tried to escape she would be shot. …

  After he’d gone, she went immediately to Alexis, and knelt by his bedside. “It’s over, my darling,” she whispered softly, careful not to wake him. She called in Pierre and told him what had happened. “Tell Anjou,” she instructed him. “Tell him to contact his people. …

  Jeanette has left, but now they’ll be alerting guards to stop her. …Please, hurry, Pierre. She’ll need their help … and don’t worry about Alexis, I’ll see that they don’t harm him. …” They embraced without a word, two very old and very good friends.

  After Pierre had left, Magda picked up the syringe and this time filled it with a massive dose of morphine. She rolled up the sleeve of Alexis’ pajamas, as she’d done so many times before, and injected the drug into his vein. She sat down on the bed beside him, took him in her arms, kissed him and held him until she felt his body slowly becoming cold. “Good-bye, my love, rest well.” And then she lay him back down and placed the sheet over his head.

  Turning, she went to her desk, sat down and wrote two notes.

  The first was to Pierre, asking him, if he returned before the Germans, to see to it if possible that Alexis had a proper burial. He was, after all, a Count. …And, she added to herself, the only man in the world, except for her father, that she had ever really loved.

  The second was to Colonel Christian (the irony of his name seemed greater than ever at this moment) Reich art:

  Dear Colonel:

  I am grateful to you for the opportunity, at last, to make my life have some meaning. Jeanette Hack Dupré is my daughter. The informant we used to pass on my information to her husband was your friend Jean-Paul Dupré, who, you may remember, first introduced you to me. He has turned out to be a patriot after all.

  Signed

  Magda Hack Charascu, of Bucharest.

  Jew.

  She carefully folded the two notes into separate envelopes, placing Pierre’s on the still body of Alexis, the other carefully and prominently propped up against the mirror. She then took out a small revolver from the drawer of the night table, lay down on the bed alongside Alexis, placed the muzzle of the gun against her temple and pulled the trigger.

  Colonel Reichart was surprised when he found her. She had seemed strangely quiet when he’d accused her, but he’d assumed that was merely resignation and fear. It hadn’t occurred to him that she’d do this. …Actually, he’d thought she’d try to escape and be shot, and they’d be done with her. Even by her death she had deceived him. …He noted the envelope, then, and quickly read it, shaking his head, feeling more than ever cheated, and worried about the reaction of his superiors to this latest in his repeated failures to stop the underground. He still didn’t know their headquarters … even though they’d confiscated numerous short-wave radios in individual homes, attics, that sort of thing. He was not altogether convinced by her accusation about Jean-Paul Dupré, who seemed too ambitious and cynical for such last-minute heroics. But never mind, Kessler thought him a likely suspect, others would too, and just now Reichart badly needed something to begin to redeem himself with. …He picked up the phone and called Gestapo headquarters. “This is Colonel Reichart. Pick up Jean-Paul Dupré immediately for questioning in connection with the escape of Jeanette Hack Dupré. …”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  WITH THE CURFEW, GETTING out of Paris in the early morning hours was extremely difficult. Etienne took to the narrow alleys and side streets, proceeding s
lowly to avoid the patrols.

  Finally they were on the road toward Creteil, the first village on their itinerary. Etienne stayed off the main roads, even going through pastures when possible. Henri slept until dawn, and when he awoke he became restless and hungry. Jeanette gave him a sandwich and poured a cup of milk from the thermos, which spilled out of the cup as they went over the bumpy roads.

  Etienne spoke softly now as they drove on. “Henri, papa is going to ask you to do something.”

  “Yes, papa?”

  “We have a long way to go, and I know this is very difficult for you, but will you try and be patient?”

  “Where are we going?”

  “On a holiday, we’ll have a fine time—”

  “I don’t want to go. Please, papa, I want to go home …” and he started to cry.

  Jeanette’s heart pounded as she said, “Henri, please don’t cry. Papa is right, we’ll have a wonderful holiday.”

  He looked at his mother and sniffed back the tears. “But where are we going?”

  “To a place called Switzerland.”

  “Where is it?”

  “It’s a beautiful place. You’ll see, you’ll love it. Papa and I have always wanted to take you there with us. It’s a favorite place of papa’s. There’s snow and high mountains and you’ll play and well make a snow man—”

  “Will it look like papa?”

  “Yes, we’ll make him look just like papa.”

  “When will we go home?”

  “After our holiday.”

  “Can’t grandma and Lucien and Nicole and Desirée come?”

  “Yes … later.”

  He seemed more content as Jeanette took him up on her lap and held him close to her. God, the terrible things she’d brought into their lives. All of this was because of her. …

  She looked at her husband’s bearded face, and the eyes straining ahead. She didn’t deserve him. …She saw herself lying with Jean-Paul, and involuntarily shuddered … in a way it was fitting that he was the one finally to “expose” her … but how unfair that her son and husband should be brought down with her. …If only she had died before Etienne had given life back to her, that would have been a blessing … her husband and son would not be on their way with her now to …She pushed the thought from her mind and prayed that they would somehow live through this. …

  Etienne’s eyes were bloodshot, his body ached with fatigue, and it was clear that he was barely able to keep from falling asleep at the wheel. When they reached Vitry-le-François, half-way between Paris and Basel, Jeanette pleaded with Etienne to stop for a moment. It was a tiny village, picturesque, far off the main highway.

  “Please, Etienne, we must stop. You can’t go on without at least a few minutes rest—”

  “No, the only thing we have on our side is time.”

  “But a few minutes … or at least let me drive for a while.”

  He reluctantly agreed to the latter, and stopped the car so they could change places. On their way again, Etienne’s eyes would involuntarily close in sleep for a few moments, then he would rouse himself and strain to stay awake.

  When they reached the village of Neuf Chateau, which was one hundred and fifty miles from the border, Etienne once again took over the wheel.

  Up to now they had been able to stay off the main roads, but that was impossible now as they neared the border. Mulhouse was the last place before reaching the checkpoint between France and Basel. This was the moment he most feared, but surprisingly there were only a few truckloads of soldiers going in the opposite direction.

  Only once were they stopped. Etienne, motioned to halt, veered off to the side of the road, a corporal got off his motorcycle and came toward him. They held their breath. “Why are we stopping, papa?” Henri asked.

  “It’s nothing, Henri, the man just wants to see my driver’s license. Now go back to sleep, little one,” Etienne said quietly to reassure the boy, but Henri watched wide-eyed as the soldier walked around the car and then came to Etienne’s side. He was dusty and dirty from the miles he must have traveled. He did not remove the goggles as he questioned Etienne in German; his voice was hard, clipped. He asked Etienne what was he doing on the road, where was he going?

  Etienne answered in German that he was a Swiss citizen, that he and his family were on their way home to Geneva. He didn’t wait for the soldier to ask for the passport—which one of Anjou’s practiced forgers had, with near-miraculous speed, provided for Etienne, as well as Jeanette and Henri—instead immediately took it out of his breast pocket and handed it to the man, who looked it over, then at Etienne for a long moment, scrutinizing him, and then waved them on.

  Etienne began to breathe easier, and Jeanette relaxed her hold on Henri. With luck, they would arrive at the border within two hours. …

  Just before they reached the border checkpoint, Etienne steeled himself. When they came to a stop, he looked beyond. Just a few feet away was Switzerland. He could almost reach out and touch it

  The border guard came to Etienne’s side and once again Etienne had his passport ready. But the guard didn’t even look at it. Instead, he ordered them to get out of the car and follow him into the station house. Etienne protested that they were Swiss citizens and he had no right to detain them, but the guard opened the door and poised his gun. It spoke for itself … and for him.

  Etienne guessed what must have happened. His mother had called Jean-Paul after all. Why else would they be detained? He should have gone along with his logic and not told her where they were going. Of course, poor maman had no way of knowing that Jean-Paul was the architect of this horror. But thinking of it now, it might have been better to have told her the truth than to risk her having to bear what was about to happen now. All very well by hindsight, but there had been so little time to think, the shock was so great, and she already had suffered so much. …

  They were taken to an anteroom where they sat on a wooden bench. The stillness was ominous. The only sound was of their own breathing, except once they heard car doors slam and the sound of footsteps outside.

  Henri began to cry. He said he was cold, and hungry. Etienne picked him up and held him until the crying stopped.

  It seemed hours before two armed guards finally appeared to escort them across the hall to a spare, crudely furnished office.

  Behind the desk sat Herr Kessler, who had been flown to the border and had just arrived. A black trenchcoat was buttoned up to his neck against the cold. He did not look up as they entered but continued to read the documents on the desk. There was no place to sit down.

  Etienne was holding Henri in his right arm, balancing himself on his cane. Jeanette stood beside him. They waited at least two full minutes before Kessler acknowledged their presence with an abrupt “What is your name?”

  “Robert Bochet.”

  “And your wife’s name?”

  “Marie Bochet.”

  “Is that your name?” He was looking at Jeanette.

  “Yes, Marie Bochet.”

  “And what is your name?” This question, softly put, was for Henri.

  The little boy began to answer, and Etienne interrupted: “His name is André Bochet, he stutters, I’m sorry …”

  Kessler waved it aside. “Where were you born?”

  “In Geneva … Switzerland.”

  “And your wife?”

  “Geneva.”

  “And the child?”

  “Geneva.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “Home.”

  “Where is that?”

  “Geneva.”

  “Why did you choose to come by way of Basel?”

  “It’s the shortest route from Paris.”

  “What were you doing in Paris?”

  “I was working there.”

  “Doing what?”

  “I worked in a bank.”

  “What bank?”

  “The Bank of Paris.”

  “On what street?”

  “The
Rue de la Paix.”

  “Why did you suddenly decide to leave?”

  “My mother is very sick.”

  Kessler glanced down at the documents, then looked up again. “Is the name Dupré familiar?”

  Etienne paused, as though to search his memory. “Yes, I would say so …”

  “You’ve heard the name before?”

  “Yes.”

  “When?”

  “It’s not an uncommon French name.”

  “Do you know anyone by that name personally?”

  “No, I don’t believe so.”

  Kessler’s face tightened in exasperation. “I suggest you stop these lies. There’s no point in it, you know.” He held up a thick file, complete with case histories, and spread it out in front of Etienne, whose body seemed to slump. What was the use of going on with the charade? It was there, all there. Courtesy of Jean-Paul …He wanted to scream out, and was about to when he felt Jeanette’s hand on his, though she was looking straight ahead, straight into Kessler’s eyes.

  “Well,” Kessler insisted, “is the name familiar to you?”

  “Yes.”

  “How familiar?”

  “I am Etienne Dupré.”

  “And your wife?”

  “Jeanette.”

  “Jeanette what?”

  “Jeanette Dupré.”

  “Her maiden name, damn you.”

  “Her maiden name, damn you,” Jeanette said, no longer willing to let Etienne bear all the brunt, wanting desperately, finally, to declare herself, “is Hack.”

  “And what is the origin of that name, Madame?”

  “A fine and honorable man, which is something you wouldn’t understand—”

  Kessler nodded. “And what was the race of this fine and honorable—”

  “For God’s sake, stop it,” Etienne broke in. “Stop it. You know—”

  “I’m waiting,” Kessler said, looking at Jeanette.

  “I am a Jew,” Jeanette said, never taking her eyes from him.

  Kessler smiled, nodded. “And no doubt proud of it—”