Geronte showed me a photo of von Groth in the newspaper, next to an article about his promotion. The man has a face like a shark, with a heavy brow and cold slits for eyes. His cheeks are hollow, and his lips are thin as a knife blade. It doesn’t take me long to spot him, cutting himself a slab of meat with surgeon-like precision and transferring it onto his plate.
A waiter in a white shirt and black bow tie strides over to greet me. He is bald, with a skinny mustache that curls at either end. This must be the man they call Boivin, another one of Geronte’s many contacts. With his job, he can conveniently observe the comings and goings at 11, rue des Saussaies. He also happens to know that von Groth, when he is done eating, has a habit of approaching single women seated at the bar.
“May I offer you a table, miss?”
“No thank you,” I reply, following our script. “A seat at the bar will do just fine.”
Boivin leads me past the Germans’ table. On the way, he drops a menu, and I bend over to pick it up for him. One of the Germans wolf-whistles. Another bangs his glass on the table. I feel sick, but at least the plan is working so far. With the menu back in his possession, Boivin shows me to a barstool that’s right in von Groth’s line of sight.
That idiot German is still wolf-whistling, but at least it helps my cause. I smile coyly in his direction, as though his boorishness appeals to me. Some of the others look my way, and I smile at them, too. I want the whole table to know that I’m here—men are competitive that way.
Notice me, von Groth. I’m right over here.
As if the man just heard my thoughts, von Groth sets down his fork, wipes the corners of his mouth with a cloth napkin, and looks to see what his comrades are still whistling about.
His ice-cold gaze makes it feel like I’m sitting in the crosshairs of a rifle. My gut tells me to flee for my life, but that is not what I came here to do. So I gather up my courage. I remind myself of the train attack in Limoges, which wouldn’t have happened without the details I gleaned from Ulrich.
And I lock eyes with von Groth. I smile at him. I even wave, which I didn’t do for anyone else at the table.
Von Groth holds our eye contact. He nods his head, almost like a greeting. Then he turns back to his previous conversation.
I take small sips of my cognac, conversing with the bartender about nothing of any importance. As my glass gets emptier and emptier, I start to wonder if my efforts with von Groth were enough. He still hasn’t come over here . . . and yet every now and then, the hairs on the back of my neck bristle, and I peer over to find von Groth gazing in my direction again.
Just as I take the last sip of my drink, there’s movement over at the table. Von Groth stands up from his chair and cuts a straight line to the bar, as though he were timing it. His boots click across the tile with purpose.
“The young lady will have another. And one for me, as well,” he says to the bartender. His voice is as sharp as a needle. Without asking if I am expecting anybody, von Groth puts his foot up on the stool next to me and leans against the bar with his elbow. I find it hard to look away from the glare of his many medals, and from the blued steel of the pistol at his right hip. After he delivers our drinks, the bartender, so chatty just a few minutes ago, scurries away like a mouse.
“Your eyes caught my attention,” von Groth says. “They are quite remarkable.”
“You flatter me, Colonel.”
“Lieutenant-Colonel, I’m afraid.”
“Oh no, that’s my mistake. I saw your photo in Les Nouveaux Temps. Congratulations on your new position. It is very impressive.”
“I appreciate the praise, coming from a French girl like yourself. Too many of your people don’t show us the proper respect.” His eyes flit in the direction of the street—toward number 11. “Will you enjoy this drink with me?”
“I would be glad to.”
Von Groth clinks his glass against mine. “I am Obersturmbannführer Walther von Groth. What is your name, miss?”
“Adalyn Bonhomme.”
It’s terrifying to give Walther von Groth my real name. I feel naked. But Adalyn Bonhomme is the girl with her picture in the society pages—the girl who hangs around the Hotel Belmont all the time—which means Adalyn Bonhomme is, once again, my best disguise.
“And what brings you to this restaurant all by yourself, Miss Bonhomme?”
I force a bashful smile. “Should the war prevent a young woman from trying to meet a nice man?”
Von Groth chuckles. “Do you speak German?”
“Unfortunately, no,” I lie.
“No matter,” he says, puffing out his chest, “I am fluent in French, among other languages.”
“Teach me to say something in German, Lieutenant-Colonel.”
“Okay. What would you like to learn?”
“Teach me how to say . . . ‘The lieutenant-colonel looks very nice in his uniform.’”
“Der Obersturmbannführer sieht gut aus in seiner Uniform.”
“Oh my! I will need your help to say that properly.” I put on the worst accent I can muster, channeling all my former classmates who struggled during German lessons. “Dare oh-burr-shturrm-bun-fü-rurr . . .”
“Sieht gut aus . . .”
“Zeet goot owss . . .”
“In seiner . . .”
“In zy-nur . . .”
“Uniform.”
“Oo-nee-form.”
Von Groth raises his glass. “Spoken like a true German.” I hate that when he smiles, his sharp little teeth poke down beneath his lip.
“I will teach you to say something else now, Miss Bonhomme.” Von Groth touches my wrist, and I fight the overwhelming instinct to pull away. I try not to look at his hands, because I don’t want to think about what they’ve done.
“Du bist wunderschön,” he says to me.
“Ooh, what does that mean?” I ask as if I didn’t already know.
“You are very beautiful,” Von Groth answers, stroking my forearm now.
“Thank you.”
“I think you mean to say ‘danke,’” he says with a wink.
Just then, one of the men who were sitting at von Groth’s table marches over and stops about five feet away from us, his hands behind his back. He clears his throat. “Obersturmbannführer, your car is waiting outside.”
“I will be there shortly,” von Groth says brusquely.
This is it, my last chance to make sure we meet again. Now I graze my fingers along his wrist.
“I do hope this is not the last time we see each other,” I tell him.
“The Saturday after next, there is a luncheon happening at this restaurant to celebrate my new position. I would have you come as my guest, if you are available.”
“It would be an honor.”
“It is a plan, then. I look forward to seeing you here at noon.”
Von Groth drains what’s left of his glass and kisses the back of my hand with those terrible thin lips of his. Then he exits the restaurant, his German companions in tow. Oh my god, what did I just do?
“Another drink, miss?” asks the bartender, who magically reappears as soon as von Groth leaves.
“No thank you,” I reply, holding on to the bar to make sure I don’t faint.
Geronte is impressed with my work. I am, too, I must admit, once I recover from the shock of it all. Von Groth suspected nothing. He believed me when I fawned over his new title and his uniform. What can I get him to tell me when I have more time with him?
It’s the night before von Groth’s luncheon. I practice piano in the drawing room while Maman and Papa read in the armchairs by the window, its curtains drawn tight to keep in the lamplight. As I come to the end of a piece, Maman looks up from her book and asks, “Shall you and I go to the market tomorrow, Adalyn?”
I bite my lip. I’ve been putting off telling my parents about the luncheon until now, as it pains me to have them think I wanted to accept the invitation. But I have to do it. I chose this life of resistance, and wh
en it comes to my spying, I must remember that the ends justify the means. The one thing making this easier is that Chloe isn’t in the room to hear me. She’s sequestered herself in Papa’s study again, to keep away from us.
“I can’t tomorrow,” I tell Maman. “I’ve been invited to a luncheon.”
“Oh! By whom, darling?”
“By . . . the new chief of Gestapo in Paris. I met him at a restaurant with some friends from university.”
I keep my eyes on the score in front of me, but I hear the soft thump of a book closing.
“The Gestapo?” Maman asks hesitantly. I can guess at what she’s thinking. Until now, she’s found a way to rationalize being around the Germans at Madame Marbot and Madame LaRoche’s parties. But the Gestapo, Hitler’s secret police, have never been present at any of them.
I finally turn to face her, and sure enough, there’s a look of concern on her face. Her eyes keep flitting over to Papa, searching for guidance, but his continued focus on his book makes it clear that he doesn’t want to get into it.
“It’s okay, Maman,” I insist. “I’m going to try to bring back some food for us. And anyhow, I . . . I reason it can’t hurt to have the Gestapo look upon our family favorably. The stories you hear . . .”
Maman sighs. “Yes . . . the stories you hear, indeed . . .”
A heavy silence fills the air.
“Very well, then,” she says at last. “If you come to my room in the morning, I can help you pick out something to wear. We can go through the photos in my drawer and get some inspiration.”
“That would be lovely, Maman.” My own duplicitousness is making me queasy. “I think I shall go get some rest now, if you’ll excuse me.”
I say good night to my parents and make for the comfort of my bedroom, where I can shut the door and bury my face in a pillow. But when I get to the hallway, I see a triangle of light on the floor, emanating from Papa’s study. Oh no. Chloe must not have closed the door all the way, in which case, there’s a chance she overheard the conversation in the drawing room.
I hold my breath as I approach the study. Perhaps I’m being overly cautious. It appears as though the door to the study is mostly closed—how much sound would even pass through there? And in any case, Maman and I were talking at a rather low volume.
But as I pass through the triangle of light, I hear Chloe shift in her seat. It’s nothing, I tell myself. But then, clear as day, my sister’s voice hisses at me through the tiny opening.
“What an embarrassment you are.”
In the morning, Maman sends me off in a lemon-yellow dress and a pair of teardrop diamond earrings, holding one of her coveted Boucheron clutches.
“You look like a walking ray of sunshine,” she assures me, but I hardly feel that way as I make my way to the luncheon. I’m wounded by Chloe’s insult, terrified to be in the icy presence of Walther von Groth again, and frustrated that the only people who know who I really am are miles away in some unknown location. I long the most for Luc, whom I haven’t seen since our afternoon by the river, and Geronte hasn’t let slip any new details as to his whereabouts. As I round the bend on to the rue des Saussaies, I remind myself what Luc said before he kissed me goodbye:
“If I am breathing, then I am thinking of you.”
Please be thinking of me now, Luc.
The restaurant is a sea of gray-green uniforms. An infestation of rats. The tables have been pushed to the edges of the room so the guests can mingle as they nibble at canapés passed around on silver trays. There’s a photographer taking pictures of the whole affair. The waiter Boivin welcomes me with a sweep of his arm. “He’s over to the left,” he whispers as I walk past.
I find von Groth at the center of a ring of admirers. When he spies me through the crowd, he snaps at two of his men to step aside and let me through. Von Groth kisses the top of my hand with his cold, hard mouth.
“Miss Bonhomme. I am delighted you joined us today.”
“It is an honor to be here.”
“You look even more beautiful than the last time.”
“Why, thank you.”
Our conversation is cut short as more men approach to offer their congratulations, but I stay by von Groth’s side for the entirety of the affair. What the lieutenant-colonel doesn’t know is that whenever he has an exchange with another German official, I pick up on every word.
At first, it’s just a flurry of formalities. “Nobody deserved it more”; “The administration is fortunate to have you”; “I look forward to working with you.” But as the affair begins to wind down, and certain less important guests make their way toward the exit, von Groth and some of his close companions take their seats around one of the big tables.
“Join us for a drink before you leave, Miss Bonhomme.”
“I would be delighted.”
Really, I would be sick, if it wouldn’t give me away. Every man around the table has a Nazi armband. Still, I slip into the chair next to von Groth and accept a glass of cognac as it comes my way. Nobody seems concerned by my presence, as they believe there to be a language barrier between us. I am nothing but another medal for von Groth to wear on his chest.
“Obersturmbannführer von Groth,” says one of the men, who seems very eager to make an impression, “you must tell us, how has the position been treating you so far?”
“Very well, Richter,” replies von Groth. “You know, the people of Paris are despicable in many ways, but they certainly make the Gestapo’s job easier when they denounce each other to us. Of course, much of it is nonsense, and one must separate the true from the false, but that is something I am capable of doing quite easily.”
There’s a murmur of laughter around the table.
“Tell us about some of the true ones,” says the man called Richter.
“Last week,” von Groth says, “we were informed by a concierge that a young couple in her building had been stockpiling weapons underneath the floorboards of their apartment. The other day, we raided their home, and indeed found many firearms. The man tried to say he was simply a collector.”
“Where are they now?” asks another man.
“The woman is in Fresnes,” von Groth says. “The man is dead.”
More laughter.
“Tell us another,” begs Richter.
“Well, there is the raid we have planned for tomorrow.” Everyone around the table leans in except for me, for I’m pretending I have no idea what’s going on. But my ears are tuned to every word that leaves von Groth’s lips.
“A man who runs a bookstore over on the rue Chauveau Lagarde informed us that the woman in the first-floor apartment across the street is sheltering a group of Jewish vermin. Of course, it may all be a lie, but that is the sort of report we must take very seriously.”
The other men nod in assent.
I am quietly trying to absorb this horrifying information when the newspaper photographer approaches the table. “A picture of the group before I leave?” he asks.
“Please,” von Groth says.
The lieutenant-colonel puts his arm around my shoulders. I wish he wouldn’t touch me, but to pull away would be to give up my position. And so, as the other men gather around us, I do the thing that I must.
I smile for the camera.
When it’s time to go, I leave the restaurant with von Groth and his men. Out on the sidewalk, he pulls me off to one side.
“I regret that we did not have more time to talk,” he says. “It was a very busy affair.”
“It’s no matter,” I insist. “I was happy to have been invited at all.”
“Regrettably,” he says, “I shall be traveling for the next few months, but if you come by here in the autumn, you will certainly find me, and I would very much like to buy you another drink, Miss Bonhomme. We can continue our German lessons.”
“I look forward to it. Safe travels, Lieutenant-Colonel.”
I let him kiss me on the hand once more—a truly foul sensation—and then I depart dow
n the block, glad to be away from him. I have to admit, it is both a disappointment and a relief that I won’t be seeing von Groth for another few months. I am going to go home and wash the back of my hand thoroughly, though first, there is something else I must do.
The rue Chauveau Lagarde is not too far away. It’s a very short street, and as far as I can see, there is only one bookstore. I go into the building directly across the street, where I tell the sleepy concierge that I’m a friend of the woman in the first-floor apartment. She waves me up the stairs without a second look.
I rap on the door quietly so the neighbors won’t hear. A minute goes by. Then the door opens just a crack. A woman juts her head through the opening. She looks thin and exhausted, like a small forest creature constantly on the run from predators.
“How can I help you?” she asks curtly.
“They know,” I tell her. “They’re coming tomorrow.”
I watch the woman’s fear swim up to the surface. Her eyes go wide, until there’s white all around her pupils.
“Who are you?” she whispers.
“It doesn’t matter,” I answer brusquely. “Just get somewhere safe. All of you.”
We lock eyes for a few agonizing seconds, one frightened woman to another. We are all in this together, tiny flames fighting to stay alight in this crushing darkness. She doesn’t say anything else. She nods at me and shuts the door. I hurry back down the stairs, praying they get away without any trouble.
Chapter 15
Alice
I’m so nervous and excited for the Project Geronte meeting, it seems unfair that we have to wait a whole week. To pass the time, Paul and I analyze the pages of Adalyn’s diary like two archaeologists, reading and rereading, desperately hunting for clues in her small cursive writing.
One early afternoon, we’re behind his desk at La Librairie. It’s a sleepy day at the bookstore, not a customer in sight and no new shipments to catalogue, so I rest my head on Paul’s shoulder as we pore over the diary once again. But the minute his shift is over, Paul closes the book and reaches for his bag.
“Let’s go,” he says.
“Is everything okay?”
The Paper Girl of Paris Page 20
