by Laura Leone
Chapter Three
June 4, 1944
Shock flooded him. "What?"
"Your wife," she ground out.
His head pounded fiercely. How could he have forgotten a wife?
"How could you have forgotten me?" she asked plaintively, twisting the knife.
"It's not... I don't know..." He made a helpless gesture. "I've forgotten me."
"Paul..."
"Yeah, I got that. What's the rest of my name?" he demanded.
"Finley. Paul Finley. You're from Philadelphia, originally. But here, you go by the name of Paul Fouquet. Born in Paris."
"You said this local Resistance leader, the one who died..."
"Didier," she supplied wearily.
"Didier. You said he gave me a cover?"
"He told people you were a distant relative. You lost everything, and so you came here to do some work for him and his wife in exchange for living in a shed behind their café."
"You and I live in a shed?" For some absurd reason, this appalled him.
"No. We live in my grandfather's cottage at the edge of Caen. Well, I live there. You do, too, really, but we still pretend you live in Didier's shed. Madame Didier still lives above the café, which she runs alone now. I think she knows you spend many nights with me, but I don't think Didier ever told her we were married." Gabrielle shrugged. "She's never mentioned it to me, anyhow."
He glanced down at her hand. No wedding ring. "We keep our marriage a secret?"
"Yes. You insisted. To protect me. The same reason you never tell me anything about where you're going or what you're doing."
He heard some resentment there. "Well, you sound like a wife."
She glared at him. It made her look like a wife, too, which made him smile.
"Who knows about us?" he asked.
"Didier knew about our marriage. So does Jean Deschamps, also in the Resistance. And the priest who married us knows, of course." Her mouth trembled for a moment. "Others in the Resistance... only know we're in love. I still go by my maiden name. Beaugard."
"Why did we get married?"
He wished he hadn't asked, when he saw how the question wounded her.
"Because we're in love," she said shakily. "But you didn't want the Germans to know, so we kept it secret."
"If they found out about me, you'd be in danger," he realized.
"Your superiors also know of our marriage. You told me that you had told them."
"Because I wanted you to be taken care of if I died," he guessed.
She nodded.
He touched her cheek, wanting to remember, trying sto hard that his head felt like it was splitting open with the pain.
"Tell me more," he said. "Tell me about yourself. You said we live in your grandfather's cottage. Does he live there, too?"
"No, he died before the war. And after France fell, my uncle fled to England with the Free French to keep fighting. I was living in Paris, but it was..." She shook her head. "I came back here to try to keep this place going." She gestured to the barn around here. "My uncle made wonderful cheese. He took over the farm after my grandfather got too old and moved to the cottage in town." She sighed. "But the Nazis took everything that was his. There's nothing of value left here now."
"You didn't want to go back to Paris?"
"Not under Nazi rule. I chose to stay here."
"And you got involved in the Underground?"
"Yes." Her mouth trembled again. "And then one day, you came."
He felt robbed that he couldn't remember meeting her. That he remembered nothing before yesterday. "Gabrielle..."
She took a steadying breath and straightened her spine. "You won't remember things unless you get better. And you won't get better without food and rest."
He wanted to argue, but he knew she was right. So he accepted the broth she made him drink, which she heated over a lantern down in the main area of the barn. Exhausted, he also heeded her admonishments to sleep for a while.
* * * * *
Heavy artillery batteries, securely planted in concrete casements, lined the French shore. Nests of mounted machine guns flanked most of the beaches. Millions of land mines were hidden along the coast, and more were waiting inland.
His mind was a web of German fortifications, a map of Hitler's supposedly impregnable Festung Europa—Fortress Europe.
The decision had been made in April of '42: The Allies would invade Nazi-occupied Europe across the English Channel. But the invasion of North Africa meant they didn't have enough strength for a strike into France in 1943, which was the year they began the long hard push into Italy.
Paul shivered with fever and kicked restlessly at the blanket covering him, hot and cold all at once. His good eye tried to focus on her... Gabrielle... as she applied something cool and damp to his face.
"How do I know what I know?" he muttered.
She sensibly ignored this obscure question and just murmured soothingly to him.
Had he reported what he knew about the secret weapons the Germans were preparing to launch from French bases? V-1 jet-propelled "buzz bombs" and giant V-2 rockets.
What about the beach defenses at Utah? He had to make the most comprehensive reports possible, or the Americans and British coming ashore would be slaughtered like lambs. Had he reported the details? Or did he still need to do that?
His head ached viciously, confusing him, making him mix up time and places and facts.
Juno, Omaha, Utah...No, that couldn't be right. Omaha was in Nebraska, not Utah...
"Be still," Gabrielle murmured. "Shhh..."
Coordinating with the French Underground—what a nightmare! Hundreds of scattered cadres, at least a dozen with whom he personally exchanged information. No clear chain of command. The Resistance... Resistant to everything, from Nazis to common sense...
God, he couldn't stand it if something happened to her. Why did he have to fall for a brave woman? Why wouldn't she flee to safety the way he begged her to?
"Please," he implored. "I want you to go."
She kept bathing his face and chest. "The fever will break soon. You'll be all right. I know you will."
He could tell she was lying...
All lies. A traitor among them. He hated leaving her now, but he had to. He mustn't fail to report, to get his final orders for the assault.
Field Marshal Rommel was waiting for it. The desert fox knew it was imminent. There were constant invasion alerts throughout the spring this year. Hitler's Atlantic Wall was fortified all along the Channel. Von Rundstedt insisted on heavy striking power deployed well behind the coastline, counting on destroying invaders weakened with confusion and supply problems as they came inland. Rommel was obsessed with making the beach heads impregnable. Paul had seen the constant patrols, the heavy defenses, the cunning traps and surprises. He had learned about the elaborate flame throwers capable of scorching potential landing sites on those beaches. Rommel did not intend to rely on Von Rundstedt's plan, did not intend to let the invasion ever get past the beaches.
Oh, yes, the Germans knew the invasion was coming. All they didn't know was the exact time and place.
Poker, Paul thought.
Victory might well depend on how well the Allies had bluffed.
"Poker?" she asked.
He grunted and pushed her away, upset that he'd spoken aloud.
Don't even think about it.
"Pas-de-Calais," he mumbled, standing pat on the biggest bluff in history.
General Patton, sitting in Dover, directly across the Channel from Pas-de-Calais, surrounded by herds of dummy tanks and aircraft and landing craft.
Some day, we'll look back and laugh.
"What's funny?" she asked.
Who was that laughing, he wondered? He joined in for a moment, but then stopped because it made his head hurt.
That crazy scheme the Allies toyed with, freezing ice and sawdust to form floating platforms which could be used as temporary landing docks or even small airstri
ps during the invasion... What genius thought up that one?
And that probably wasn't even the craziest idea to get taken seriously, however briefly, during this war. Ah, the books someone would write about all this some day... If anyone lived to tell the tale. If they weren't all corpses, ashes plowed into the earth of a world ruled by the Third Reich...
They couldn't let that happen. He couldn't let that come to pass.
"It's so simple."
"What is?" she asked.
So very simple, the general had said to him. All we have to do is save the world.
It kept him silent when he knew he mustn't talk.
Save the world and win the girl...
No, he knew he mustn't think about her. Not even a thought.
Mustn't think about the rest of it, either.
D-Day.
"Paul?"
Operation Overlord.
"Pas-de-Calais," he lied insistently.
The biggest bluff in history.
All they had to do was save the world.
* * * * *
Both eyes opened this time. The left one, not very much... but he could see out of it—though it took him a few moments to realize this, since it was dark again.
He wondered what that soft drumming was, then realized: rain. Again.
He lay there listening to it for a while, then gradually became aware of a faint splashing sound coming from the barn below him. "Ga..." His throat was dry. He tried again. "Gabrielle?"
"Ici," she called softly. Here.
She climbed up into the loft. He could scarcely see her.
"So dark tonight," he muttered.
"This filthy weather."
"Rain. Storms. Wind." It meant something to him. It seemed like a problem. He just didn't know why.
She came closer. "You're better."
"Yes," he agreed.
"The fever broke after sundown."
Her silence was speakingwas telling, so he informed her, "I still don't remember. Well, not much."
"Not much? What do you remember?" she pounced.
"Mostly... things about the war."
"The invasion?"
He went still. "No."
It wasn't entirely a lie. He wasn't sure what his jumbled thoughts meant.
Will the rain never stop?
Why did he care so much about the weather?
"Do you remember being a prisoner?"
The pain... His head started throbbing.
"Some of it."
"What?" she prodded, kneeling beside him now.
He could hardly see her tonight. "Is there a lantern?"
"Downstairs. We shouldn't use one up here, not with that window," she said. "This place is isolated, but even so...
"If someone saw the light, they might investigate."
"Yes."
Needing human contact, wanting it, he reached out to touch her. She was in her slip again. Her skin was damp and cool. "You've been... washing?"
Her breath was shallow as he explored her. "Yes."
He brushed his fingers across her throat. "I... like to watch you wash."
"You're remembering?" she asked hopefully.
He shook his head. "No, I think it was a lucky guess." Based on the way his thoughts suddenly filled with a mental image of her—remembered, or just imagined?—sluicing water over her bare skin. Droplets trickling down the smooth column of her throat, sliding into the valley between her breasts...Water glistening on the pale skin of her back, tapering down to her waist...
He came out of his reverie when he heard her unhappy little sigh.
"It's so strange," she said. "You're right here, you act very much like yourself... Yet I'm so lonely for you, because you don't remember me."
"So this is what I'm usually like?"
"No. I mean..." She suddenly laughed, though it was a weak and shaky sound. "This is your personality, yes. But your circumstances—weak, ill, confused—make everything even stranger. You're normally in charge. In command. Confident. Organized. Efficient." She added archly, "Bossy."
"You don't seem," he ventured, "like a woman who would let me boss you much."
"I don't," she assured him. "We fight when you try."
He smiled. It sounded true. Even familiar. "Gabrielle..." The more he said her name, the more right it sounded to him. Memory? Or was he just getting used to her?
"Yes?"
"I, uh... Never mind."
While they held their silence in the dark, the rain started to let up.
"I'll get you something to drink," she offered.
"No, I'll come down with you."
"You shouldn't—"
"I need to go outside for a moment," he explained.
"Ah. Of course." She sounded very matter of fact. Well, a wife would be accustomed to her husband having normal human functions, after all. "I'll help you climb down."
She rose and leaned down to help him do the same. It was more difficult than he had expected. He was dizzy when he stood up, leaning against her for a moment while his body adjusted. Then, impatient with his weakness, he pulled slightly away from her.
"Come," she said, leading him towards the ladder.
"Wait a minute." He felt embarrassed at the idea of walking around naked with her. "Where are my clothes?"
"I burned them."
"Burned..." He seemed to remember her saying something about that. Ages ago. "Why?"
"They were all torn, and covered in blood and mud and... ugh, who knows what else?"
"But—"
"You couldn't have worn them again, chéri, je te le jure. So I burned them. I don't expect anyone to come here, but if I'm wrong, then it's better that no one should find those clothes. They'd realize right away that—"
"Yes, I see." He supposed he did. It was a sensible precaution. "But surely I must have other clothes?"
"Not here." Sensing his hesitation, she let out her breath on an impatient puff. "Paul, there is no one here but me, and I see you naked often." When he didn't respond, she added, "You like me to look at you naked."
He could well believe that. And at least he seemed to be in decent shape for showing himself off to her. "It's just that, uh..."
"I see." She was getting annoyed. "You let me do the things I did this morning when you didn't even know my name. But now that you know I'm your wife, you don't want me to see you naked."
"When you put it that way," he admitted, "it sounds bad. But this morning, we were making love. Whereas now—"
"Were we?" she snapped. "Love? You didn't even know my name!"
"But you knew I was your husband—"
"While you thought I was just some woman you were enjoying for a few minutes!"
"No, I thought you had saved my life—"
"Oh, and your way of saying merci was to roll around in the straw with me?" Her sarcasm made him wince. "What if some other woman had rescued you? Would you be in bed with her now?"
"Not unless she was also as bold as a cat in heat," he snapped back. "It's not fair to blame me completely for—"
She gasped in outrage. "A cat in heat! Monstre! You're the one who taught me to be bold with you! You like it!"
"I know! Without remembering! I can tell! In fact, I love it. I loved it so much this morning, I wanted you even though I was half-dead. So why," he said, angry by now, "are we fighting about it?"
"Because when I took off my clothes for you last night—"
"You were so beautiful, I—"
"Or put you in my mouth this morning—"
"And I'd have died a happy—"
"You might have found the time to mention," she snarled, "that you thought I was a total stranger instead of the woman you married!"
"My body could tell—"
"Because if I had known that you didn't know that we do things like that together all of the time—"
"We do?"
"Yes!" she cried furiously.
"In that case, I married very well, didn't I?"
"I m
ight have been a little more... A little less..."
"Yes?" he prodded.
She sputtered, "I would not have..."
His anger was fading now, being replaced by amusement. And comfort. This did feel familiar. Wonderfully so. "Would not have what?" he asked, cheerfully goading her. Did he even like arguing with her? He must be in love.
"I would never have—"
"Put my hands on your breasts?" he offered helpfully. "Or taken me in your mouth—"
"Yes!"
"With, I might add, stunning expertise. Is it always that good, or was this morning special?"
"You'll just have to live with not knowing, won't you?"
"I guess you wouldn't have put my hand between your legs, either?"
"I did not—" She paused. "Did I?"
"And showed me how to make you happy."
"Since you'd forgotten."
"Still, I muddled through well enough, didn't I?" She grunted non-committally in reply, so he continued, "Oh, well, if I've left you wanting, we can certainly—"
"Oh, stop," she said in exasperation. "Enough."
"Of course, at the time, you seemed pretty pleased. But I'll be the first to admit that I'm not quite myself, so—"
"Are you sure?" she said dryly, also sounding more amused than angry now. "Because you're starting to sound just like yourself."
He came closer, ready to make up. "Am I an irritating husband?"
"Very," she whispered, reaching for him.
They bumped noses in the dark, laughed softly, and then kissed. They were gentle, mindful of his sore lip—and of each other's volatile feelings right now.
"I'm sorry," he whispered. "I came back from death, and you were there. So beautiful. So free with my body... and with yours, too."
"Well, you're my husband," she whispered back, "even if you don't remember that."
He slid his arms around her, trying to imagine what this must be like for her, being with a spouse who didn't know her. She hesitated for a moment, then embraced him, too.
Her palms were smooth and warm on his naked back, and exquisitely gentle on the bandages she had put over the stinging marks of the whip the Gestapo had used on him. Her fingers absently kneaded his shoulders. Her breasts flattened against his chest, the worn fabric of her slip a delicate barrier between them. Her flat belly snuggled against his groin, and she ran her hands down to his buttocks, which she cupped and suddenly gripped hard, pulling his hips possessively against her.
