She wasn’t French, she wasn’t a flower, and she wasn’t naïve.
She’d had no plans beyond tonight. Seduce Hoekman, find out where they kept her father. And if that failed? If they’d killed him? Then at least she could take her revenge, steal whatever she could from Hoekman’s flat, and flee the city. Head for the River Cher and get to the south side somehow, into the formerly unoccupied territory. The boches had broken their promises—didn’t they always?—and occupied Vichy all the way to the sea, but it was different to the south. Even now the Germans were thin in the Dordogne, she’d heard. But she’d have to evade the milice and the other Vichy authorities. It would be a desperate chance.
Gabriela faced desperation of a different kind now. Major Ostermann offered her an escape. The thought of going home with him made her stomach churn.
“The girl is shaken up, I think,” Helmut said. “How about we give her a few francs and send her home for the night? Maybe tomorrow, when she feels better, we’ll come back.”
Ostermann shook his head. “She’d be safer with company.”
“Safer from what?” she asked.
“Colonel Hoekman, of course. I just put him off for the moment, but I guess you don’t speak German, so you wouldn’t have heard what I said.”
“So he’ll be back?” There still might be a chance.
“Not here, no. If you see him again, it will only be when the Gestapo kicks down your door in the middle of the night.”
She glanced at Helmut, but there was nothing on his expression to tell whether or not Ostermann was telling the truth. She thought he was bluffing about the Gestapo part, although she had never passed a German in the street without dreading a voice at her back shouting, “You! Halt!” The thought of the Gestapo coming in the night filled her with a secret terror.
But never seeing Hoekman again was almost worse. She had staked her last few resources on getting close to him. And if that was gone, what?
A sense of tightening panic gripped her. She had nothing left, no food, no money, nothing to sell. Even the clothes on her back came from money she’d borrowed from Christine.
“And you must be lonely,” the major continued. “My apartment is very warm. I can draw up hot bath water. I had some pastries sent in this morning, but I couldn’t eat them. How does that sound, Gabriela? What a pretty name, it almost sounds Spanish or Italian.” After a moment of silence, he asked again, “How does that sound?”
Weighed against what? Going back to the bedbug-infested room she rented from the Demaraises? The old couple could not afford to heat their own flat, let alone the tiny, drafty converted hallway where there was barely enough room to stand up or lay down her mattress. If she stood and left the Germans’ table, she’d be shivering in bed tonight with nothing but an aching in her belly. Listening to the rats behind the floorboards, inches from her head, always gnawing, fighting, fucking.
A hot bath, a warm bed. Pastries. Maybe a few francs in the morning and a hot cup of real coffee. It sounded like heaven.
All she had to do was whore herself to a German officer. And pretend she liked it.
Another group of Germans entered, talking loudly and smoking. No sign of Leblanc, but Christine swept into the room, said something in German that made the men laugh, and led them to a table. Just moments earlier the restaurant had been a scene of terror and violence, but life went on. Christine glanced her way and the two women shared a look of understanding.
Gabriela turned back to Ostermann and gave her best charming smile. She hoped it hid her despair and self-loathing. She put a hand on his knee. “A hot bath sounds wonderful. I don’t suppose you have any perfumed soap.”
Ostermann beamed. “I can get some. You will smell lovely.”
Chapter Four:
Gabriela thought it would be harder to prostitute herself to a German.
She’d never, in fact, seriously considered it. Had only approached Monsieur Leblanc so that she could get close to Colonel Hoekman. And yes, she’d have slept with Hoekman, but for something far greater than money. And yet here she was, leaving the restaurant on Major Ostermann’s arm and she felt more relief than anything.
Christine stopped Gabriela at the front door of Le Coq Rouge as she put on her coat. “Be careful,” she whispered as they embraced.
“Of course.”
She slipped something into the pocket of Gabriela’s coat. Gabriela put her hand in the pocket and felt a slip of paper as Ostermann led her out. A note? She wished she could take it out and read it.
Gabriela had certainly misjudged Christine that day in the flea markets. First in one direction, then the other. Not so glamorous after all, just a prostitute. Gabriela would never fall so low.
And now she was leaving the restaurant in the company of a German for the first time. She fingered the note in her pocket and wondered what Christine had to say. Final advice? A warning? Something about the arrest of Roger Leblanc?
An old man was in the alley when she left the restaurant on Major Ostermann’s arm, rummaging through the rubbish. The old man wore a battered blue military coat of the kind they wore in the Guerre de Quatorze and gloves without fingers. His face was filthy and he smelled worse than the garbage through which he pawed. But when the major stepped out with the young French woman on his arm, he stood proud and erect. He said nothing, did nothing to the German, but looked at Gabriela with an expression of such disgust and loathing that she shrank back.
What am I supposed to do? she wanted to plead to the old veteran. For god’s sake, tell me!
Ostermann glanced at the old man, but the man’s sneer was gone. A blank mask took its place. He turned back to the garbage.
Ostermann snapped his fingers at a young soldier, who left at a run and returned a moment later with a black car. A chill breeze flapped the flags above the headlights, which held the same straight-winged eagles above swastikas as his hat.
“A Horch Cabriolet,” Ostermann said with a touch of pride. “There is some advantage to being in charge of requisitions, after all.”
“Is that a good car?”
He looked at her with a frown. “A luxury car before the war.” Then, when she didn’t respond, he added, “The same car Rommel drives.”
“Ah, of course. It’s very handsome, Major.”
This seemed to appeal to his vanity. He smiled effusively, but waved his hand. “Please, none of that major business here. My name is Alfonse.”
“Okay, Alfonse.”
He opened the door for her and she got in. He entered from the other side. They sped off. Gabriela gave a glance through the rear window to see the old man still watching. It was too dark to see his expression.
Ostermann bragged as they left the 8th Arrondissment. It was the only way to describe his method of conversation. His boots were of Italian leather, he could get American cigarettes. He had a large flat, heated and with hot running water. He ate only the finest cuts of meat. Even Russian caviar was not unknown to his plate.
“And our boys on the Eastern Front have had a hell of a time of it lately, so you can imagine how hard caviar is to find these days.” He seemed to catch himself. “Don’t repeat that. The war is going very well.”
“Of course I won’t,” she said in a shocked voice. “I never pass along any confidence.”
“That’s good. Anyway, I’m sure any setbacks will be reversed come spring. The Russians put up a fierce resistance in the winter, but they are rubbish once the tanks get rolling. War these days is a thinking man’s battle and they’re no good at strategy.”
“I wouldn’t know about that.”
“Not to mention that they’re more scared of their own commissars than German bullets. They throw down their weapons and surrender at the first opportunity.” He lit a cigarette. “Or so I’ve heard.”
For his sake it was a good thing she wasn’t with the maquis. He was a babbler; it wouldn’t be hard to pry out military secrets with a few questions and a bit of flattery.
She found herself hating him. His casual acceptance of Roger Leblanc’s arrest and the accusation of homosexuality. The way he left food on the plate in the restaurant, while proud men had been reduced to rummaging through the garbage. The way his driver sped around traffic and nearly ran down a man trying to cross the street.
“Goddamn Jew, violating curfew,” Ostermann said as the man leaped out of the way and they sped past without slowing. He said something in German to the driver, who chuckled.
The whole city had been under curfew since last February, but the Germans, in one of their periodic attempts to show largesse, had lifted the curfew, except for Jews.
But nothing about the man’s appearance had given an indication as to whether or not the man was a Jew, so far as she could see. And never mind that the so-called Ville-Lumière—City of Light—was a dark, dreary place at night, what with electrical rationing and the forced blackouts. They’d been almost upon the man before the Horch’s headlights caught his startled expression. If it was anyone’s fault, surely it was the fault of the driver, not the pedestrian.
“I had the most delicious lamb with mint sauce yesterday,” Ostermann said. “I know you French love to talk about food. You want to hear what my cook’s secret is?”
She was so hungry she could almost faint. A few bites of venison had done nothing more than stoke her appetite. She didn’t want to hear about lamb with mint sauce unless it were on the end of her fork. “Yes, of course. How was it prepared?”
Her mind went to another place as he gave the details, but the only participation he required was a nod and a smile and a light touch on his arm.
The driver stopped the car in front of a block of apartments, not far from the Luxemburg Gardens. “Ah, here we are.”
“Oh, how nice. I’ve always loved these flats, Alfonse.”
“First thing, hot bath. Then those pastries. They’re delicious, you’ll see.”
“And after we eat the pastries?” she asked in a teasing tone.
He grinned back. “Then we have dessert.”
#
“Put your clothes on,” a man said in a disgusted tone.
Gabriela sat up, half-awake, startled. Her head pounded and it took a moment to remember where she was, last night’s debauchery. Ah, the food, those glorious pastries. Had they ever been so good before? She had never fully appreciated them.
Her eyes focused and she saw Helmut von Cratz standing at the doorway of the bedroom. He didn’t look at her and she glanced down to see that she was naked, with sheets and blankets tossed around. She hadn’t needed clothes or blankets to stay warm last night. Apart from their physical efforts, Alfonse (she’d stopped thinking of him as Major Ostermann sometime during the night) must have wasted a week’s worth of coal heating the apartment.
Gabriela pulled a sheet around herself. She felt her face light up with shame. “How did you get in here?”
“The maid let me in.”
Indeed, the maid was in the salon, cleaning. She passed by with a broom and a dustpan and did not look inside.
The events of last night came rushing back.
Gabriela had formed a plan: maintain a cold distance. She had to sleep with the German, but she could disengage her mind. She would let her body respond, but it would be an act, and she’d be detached, watching everything. It was the only way to keep her dignity. Just like the maquis were willing to be tortured for France, she would let Alfonse have his way with her sexually, so as to stay alive, to give herself a chance to find Colonel Hoekman again.
The French army would have been proud at how fast she surrendered to the German.
She had eaten two pastries, drank three glasses of wine. Felt light-headed.
Alfonse, when he wanted to, could be seductive. He flattered her, coddled her. Made promises and suggestive remarks. When she seemed reticent, he buttered her with charm.
Gabriela had lived in isolation for two years, since she last saw her father. Four years since her first, tentative boyfriend in Barcelona. She didn’t realize how much she craved attention and human touch.
There was no cold distance. There was no disengagement. When the time came, she shivered under Alfonse’s touch, felt her body respond in every way. It was a lie to blame the wine.
He took her there on the couch, gently, like a lover. And then later, in the bedroom, harder, faster, more urgently. There might have been one more time, but she’d had too much wine by then and couldn’t remember the details. But she had been willing, she knew that much.
“Where is Major Ostermann?” Helmut asked from the doorway.
She gripped the sheet more tightly. “How would I know?”
“Yes, I know. You’re just the prostitute who spent the night. But my friend talks too much.”
“I’m not a prostitute.”
Helmut stepped into the room, made his way to the night stand. He picked up the folded German marks, sitting on a plate next to one of last night’s half-eaten pastries, and tossed them to her. “Your pay. For services rendered.”
She looked down at the money. It was quite a lot. In fact, if she was figuring the conversion right, it was only about five francs short of what she owed Christine for the dress and shoes.
“With that kind of money, you must have pulled a double shift. How many times did you give yourself to him?”
Oh, god. She was a whore. A filthy whore to the boches. What would her father have said? I didn’t leave Spain so you could whore yourself to fascists.
No, he would have never judged her. Papá would have told her to do what it took to survive. But that didn’t mean she hadn’t shamed him.
“Go buy yourself a good meal,” the German said. “You’re too skinny. Too many bones, too few curves. It’s not attractive.”
“I’m skinny because the goddamned boches are stealing all our food.” The words came out before she could reconsider. “You, you’re personally responsible. I know what your business is. You steal the riches of France. That’s your job.”
“I pay money for everything I buy,” he said.
“At the price you set. You buy up everything for nothing and you ship it off to Germany. Do you have a wife and children there? I bet they don’t go hungry at night. Well here, in France, there are hungry children sleeping in the streets because of your job.”
“Where did you hear that? The so-called Free French from London? Don’t believe everything you hear from the BBC. It’s propaganda.”
“I don’t have to listen to the radio to see what’s right in front of my eyes. To see the little crusts on my plate while the German trucks rumble off from the bakeries every morning, loaded with bread for your soldiers.”
Helmut pointed to the half-eaten pastry. “Wonder what the suffering children of France would say if they could see that. There goes a true patriot, stuffing herself with pastries and German sausage. She must truly love France.”
This stopped her.
“What do you want?” she said at last. “Just to see me naked? Are you waiting until I get dressed so you can sit and gawk?”
“Yes, I know. One usually pays for that privilege.”
“Are you just cruel by nature? Can’t you see, I’m doing what it takes to survive, that’s all.”
And this seemed to stop him. “Yes, I guess you are.”
“What is it you want?” Gabriela asked. “Please, just tell me and then leave me alone.”
“I need to find Major Ostermann. I have business to discuss and it is rather urgent. The sooner you tell me what you know, the sooner I’ll leave.”
“I’m afraid I really don’t know.”
Helmut clenched his jaw. “God, this is annoying. He knew I was coming. I told him three times.”
He turned, scanned the room, fixed on the major’s desk in the corner. He flipped through a stack of papers on the desk. It was a familiar gesture, yet she caught him glancing back to see if she was watching. As if considering whether to break into the desk itself and if it would get b
ack to the major if he did.
“Are you sure he’d want you to do that?” she asked.
“Mind your own business.” He let out an exaggerated sigh. “Looks like my trip is wasted. Good day.” To her relief, he turned to go.
Someone cleared her throat. It was the maid, standing in the hallway. “Excuse me, Monsieur,” she said in a tentative voice. “The major left a note.”
“Well, why didn’t you say so in the first place?”
“I wasn’t sure who. . .I—”
“Never mind, hand it over.” He took the envelope, opened it and read with a frown. “Ah, I see now.” He tossed the note to the bed. “It’s for you. You must have been impressive.”
Gabriela unfolded the paper.
You were wonderful last night. Please, stay in the apartment. Help yourself to whatever food you find in the flat. The maid will bring you anything else you may require. I shall be back after dark. I hope to see you then.
A.
“Congratulations,” Helmut said, “you’ve secured full-time employment.”
Chapter Five:
“I am an American spy. I know when the Americans plan to invade France and how. I can either betray the Fatherland if I choose, or I can sell this information to the German High Command.”
Helmut von Cratz talked out loud to himself as he drove down the motorway and into the Loire Valley. There was nobody else in the car to hear. A light snow fell from the sky and the bald tires slipped as they tried to grip the turns. Goddamned rubber shortage.
He came around a corner to see a farmer in the middle of the road, leading a donkey that pulled a cart. Helmut punched the brakes. The tires locked and he started to slide. The man must have heard him coming, because he was trying to pull the donkey onto the shoulder. He looked up, and a shared moment of terror seemed to pass between the two men.
Helmut caught control and slid around the cart, prepared to fly off the road and slam into the trees. There was a sickening moment when he could feel the future: car crumpled, head slammed into the windscreen, the steering wheel crushing his sternum. But the bumper caught the edge of the cart, spun both the car and the cart around, and he came to a stop.
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