A Jewel In Time; A Sultry Sisters Anthology

by Barbara Devlin

  Soldiers closed in around her and the SS officer pivoted, her arm still painfully held in a crushing grip, and marched her forward. One of the guards trotted forward to the corner, waving his arm. By the time they caught up with him, the black Mercedes, which had passed them in the night pulled to the curb.

  “Fräulein,” the officer said, when the door was opened. “You can go in willingly, or I will put you in.” He squeezed her arm painfully, and leaned in to whisper in her ear. “And I might enjoy that a bit too much.”

  Grace tugged her arm free, and he let her go. She was under no illusions as to his strength, or determination. His blue-eyed gaze was hard, cold. It was the first time she’d seen his eyes. In the dreams, the eyes were always shaded by his hat, his head tilted down.

  Frowning at the image in her mind, she slid into the luxurious car.

  Something was different. Something was wrong. She closed her eyes and let the threats and self-aggrandizing boasting wash over her. What was it? What was different?

  The blow took her by surprise and she fell forward, striking her head on a case sitting on the floor of the car. Vaguely as her head spun and her ears rang, she heard him ranting about her lack of attention, her insolence.

  “The scars,” she murmured, her mind finally latching onto the difference in the image. “There were scars.”

  A second blow, driving her into the case once more, sent her into darkness.

  A man burst into the cellar where Dix was meeting with his contact, Frans Bruener. They were shaking hands, concluding their business as the man hurried forward, spewing information as he came.

  “The lady, they’ve taken her. SS,” he panted. “Put her in a car.”

  “Grace,” Dix snarled, gripping the man’s shoulder. “Where did they take her?”

  “Not sure. Not far though. He struck her. The SS man.”

  Fury roiled through him, rage so powerful, so red, it must have shown on his features because the runner shrank from him, fear written on his face.

  “Describe the man,” he said, through gritted teeth.

  “SS, black coat, you know.” The man swept a hand down his body to indicate the length. “Long. Boots, of course. Close cut blond hair. Blue eyes.”

  “Do you know him?”

  “Major Rudolph Kirken.”

  “Find him.”

  The man looked at Bruener, who nodded.

  “Done,” the runner said, going out as fast as he had come in.

  “You will take care of him.” Bruener made it a statement, not a question.

  “Thoroughly.”

  “The plane will be ready. If you come for it, it will be there. If you don’t...” Bruener shrugged.

  “You’ll have an extra plane. I’d use it if I were you, if we don’t make it. Get out of Germany.”

  Bruener nodded. “I have my own way.” He turned back to the table where they’d been sitting, picking up the packet of documents and an envelope of money. “Your people made sure you would have plenty.”

  Dix peeled off half the money, handing it back. “If we’re not out of here tonight, we’re not going. We’ll be dead. You take this. Get yourself and your family out.” He took a scrap of paper and scribbled an address. “If you need help, or when you get out, send word to this address. They’ll find me. I’ll do whatever I can.”

  Bruener held out a hand, and Dix gripped it. “Thank you. My wife, she’s from a Jewish family. We had already planned to go.”

  “It’s only going to get worse.”

  “Ja,” Bruener agreed. He stepped away, opened a drawer in the desk he’d been using. “Here. Take this.”

  The luger wasn’t new, but it was well cared for. The action slid easily as he checked the load in the clip. It had been reworked, but he didn’t care as long as it fired.

  “Thank you.”

  He was heading for the door when the runner burst back in.

  “The lady, they called Herr Doctor Nurin to come. I heard them tell him to come to the station on the Triers road.

  “Take me there.”

  “Good luck!” Bruener called after them. He looked at the notes in his hand, folded them and tucked them away. He hoped he didn’t have to sell the plane.

  It was cold, and the wind whipped through Dix’s hair as he crouched by the building, listening for the sound of footsteps. The guards, four of them, were switching off rounds. Two walking, two inside with Grace, the doctor and the SS officer.

  The first of the two called an insult to his comrade over his shoulder as he turned the corner. Dix was on him before he could make any further sound, dropping him quietly into the snow when he stopped struggling. He slung the man’s rifle over his own shoulder, and shoved the extra knife into the side of his own boot. As quietly as he could, he stuffed the man’s body under the edge of the house and stood up.

  The second guard strode around the corner and stopped, a supremely surprised look on his face as the bayonet on Dix’s stolen rifle slid into his heart.

  Dragging him and dropping him with his fellow, Dix crouched at the corner near the building’s front. The other two guards would be coming out soon. He had to be ready.

  “Hey!” A voice shouted, only for the sound to be whipped away by the wind. Dix spun in place, and in one smooth move, threw the knife from his boot. It caught the guard in the throat and he went down, gurgling, his hands frantically scrabbling at the hilt.

  A click behind him had him turning, but the second shot wasn’t a misfire. It caught him in the back, spinning him around, dropping him to the ground.

  The soldier advanced, pointing his weapon down at Dix, murder in his eyes. “We have her,” he said. “And now, you will die.”

  Grace vomited so hard she thought her head would fly apart, though nothing was coming up. The doctor made soothing noises, and gave her a cloth to wipe her mouth, which she somehow managed despite the manacles on her hands. The doctor had a cold compress for the massive bruise on the side of her face, and, now that her sickness was over for the moment, he returned it to her cheek. She groaned in relief.

  “It is the blow to the head,” the doctor said quietly. “It has upset your inner ear.” He helped her to sit on the desk again. He had cleared it of papers and laid out a sheet where he put his bag. Opening the satchel, he uncorked a bottle.

  “Take these, now,” he said, passing her two more tablets. He’d tried this once already, but she’d vomited up the first set. “They will reduce the swelling from inside, as the ice will help outside. We will see if you can keep them down now, eh?” She gave him a miserable look, but nodded, and he patted her hand. “It will pass, Fräulein. I am sorry for your trouble. Now hold this on your cheek, ja? I want to check your--”

  Whatever he was about to say was cut off as the two soldiers in the other room hurried into the night, letting a gust of freezing wind blast into the small building before the heavy wooden door slammed shut. It was a station or local political office during the day, but Major Kirken had commandeered it when she threw up all over his highly polished boots.

  She’d still been vomiting when the doctor arrived and ordered Kirken into the other room so he could examine Grace.

  Kirken had demanded his suitcases, and when one of his men brought them in, he’d changed his clothes right down to a new pair of boots. The soiled boots he tossed carelessly into a trash bin, along with his trousers. She could see the pile of cloth and leather from where she sat, since Kirken wouldn’t let the doctor close the door.

  Now, she saw Kirken draw his a pistol, and go to the door.

  He opened it and the temperature dropped again.

  “Heidle, Paulkirk?” He shouted into the wind.

  Grace heard the faint reply, but couldn’t make out the words.

  There was a triumphant “HA!” from Kirken, and he rushed into the night, the wind slamming the door behind him once more.

  “Herr Doctor,” Grace began earnestly, but the doctor stopped her.

  “I canno
t help you Fräulein. My position in town is already in jeopardy. Everyone knows I was called here, that Kirken had you. If you suddenly escape, who will he blame? And who will help my wife, my children, my patients if I am dead?”

  Grace nodded. He was right. And even if he would help, she was in no shape to run.

  “Now, see if you can stand, ja?” The doctor helped her, his grip firm, but gentle, in high contrast to Kirken’s heavy treatment. “Good, yes. Now, sit again. Dizzy? No? Good. I will give you something for the pain.”

  There was a muffled sound outside, and she and the doctor glanced at one another. When it wasn’t repeated, the doctor shrugged and checked her eyes.

  “I do not think there is a concussion. Here, take this,” he said, offering a spoonful of a sticky liquid. “It is not much, but it will make you sleep. If he knows you are asleep, drugged, he will not hit you again, ja?”

  She had lifted it to her lips, taken a little, when the door whipped back, slamming into the wall with the force of the wind, and the furious Major Kirken. His uniform was askew, snow-caked and blood stained. While his hat was firmly in place, incongruously, the belt on his coat dangled loose.

  His jaw was set, but already swelling as if he’d taken a blow. His lips were a thin, hard, cruel line, but his eyes were shaded by the cap pulled low over his face. A purpling bruise rose high on his cheek, at the edge of his left eye. He’d taken a beating from someone.

  Her heart, already bruised and battered, sank to her boots.

  If Kirken were still here...

  “Come,” he said harshly, grabbing her arm and jerking her off the table, pistol at the ready. He left the doctor standing alone, a spoon of medicine poised in midair.

  Kirken dragged her behind him, letting go for a fraction of a second as he snatched her coat from the hook and flung it at her. Before she could put it on, he yanked her forward to the door.

  “You,” he snarled back at the doctor, “go to town, report that my men are dead.”

  “But...”

  The weapon came up, and the doctor stopped speaking.

  “This woman is my prisoner, wanted by the Führer himself. Nothing,” he snapped, “Nothing will keep me from getting her to him. Do you understand me?”

  “Ja, of course, Major Kirken,” the doctor stammered.

  Kirken dragged her out into the night. Her head swam and her vision clouded. The blows, sickness, and the little bit of the drug she’d taken were working to skew her thoughts and have her hallucinating.

  The scars.

  There were scars on his face. She saw them, on his cheek, plain now as he turned away from the lights of the station, dragging her to the car.

  Had she missed them before? Had she been so afraid of him that she missed them?

  It really was Kirken, then, who was her destiny. This abominably cruel, furious Nazi was the one. He would deliver her like a present to his master without a qualm. This was what the jewel, cold as ice against her breast, had brought her to.

  The bruising and his high, turned up collar hid his face as he shoved her into the car. He didn’t bother to shake off the snow, which covered him everywhere. He shoved her across the front seat and slid in behind her, still pointing the gun her way.

  The engine roared to life and he spun the wheel, sending Grace flying into the door. He reached over and jerked her upright, driving into the night with reckless skill, returning to Konz and taking the turn in the middle of town that led toward Triers.

  There were few people on the streets as dark was falling, but they stopped to stare at the racing car, fear on their faces when they saw the flags, the insignia.

  “And you do nothing,” she whispered to them. Her head swam and her thoughts spun like a strand of spider silk on the breeze.

  She tried to focus, tried to form words, but the medicine and the sickness blanked her thoughts and she slumped, exhausted and spent, to the seat.

  When she came to, the manacles were gone, but he was lifting her, pulling her from the car. The barn from her dreams was awash in the Mercedes’s powerful headlamps.

  Her sudden struggles made him lose his grip, and his shouts where whipped away by the wind. She resisted, trying with all her might to pull away, to get away, but he was too strong.

  Inexorably, he pulled her to the building, jerked open the door, and all but tossed her in.

  “Grace,” he said, his voice hugely loud as he shut the door, and shut out the wind.

  She stepped back, away from him. “No.”

  He threw the hat aside, flung off the coat. “Grace, it’s me. It’s Dix.”

  Motionless, she stared at him. “No, I’m hallucinating. I’m dead.”

  To her joy, he laughed, then winced. “No, you’re not dead. And I thank God you’re not badly hurt.”

  “Are you?” she said, seeing blood, bright and red on his shirt. “Are you?” she rushed forward, pulling his arm over her shoulder, guiding him to sit on dusty bench. There was a dim light from a string of bulbs high in the top of the barn, but her focus was on Dix.

  “Where are you hit?”

  “In the back.”

  She came behind him, around the bench and pulled the black shirt from the waist of the black pants. He’d changed into Kirken’s clothes, right down to the belt.

  “What happened to Kirken?”

  “He got frostbite,” Dix said, then hissed as she slid the diary from the waistband of his pants. Blood dotted the leather, and a long scratch made a sort of divot along its surface.

  Beyond the scrape, a tear in his skin seeped blood. He’d been shot.

  A second hole, two inches beyond the entry point, showed where the bullet had gone out.

  “Oh, Dix,” she breathed his name like a prayer. “You’ve been shot.”

  “Dammit,” he cursed, craning his neck to see. “No wonder it hurts like hellfire. Is it bad?”

  “No,” she said, and the relief made her faint. “No, it’s not bad. A bandage should stop the bleeding.”

  “There’s probably a first aid kit here, somewhere,” he said, looking around.

  Tearing her eyes from the still seeping wound, Grace looked up. And up.

  It wasn’t a barn, it was a hanger. In front of them rested a biplane, painted a shiny, bright blue. Beyond that, a work bench and a small office promised the possibility of a first aid kit.

  Hurrying over, she found it and came back to bandage his wounds.

  “The book saved you,” she said, finally, holding it up for him to see the bullet-scored binding.

  “It redirected the bullet.”

  “Yes.”

  “Grace,” he said, taking her hands. “Kirken’s dead. He’s gone.”

  he said nothing, and he plowed on, fear stalking his heart.

  “It was him, wasn’t it? The SS Officer from your dreams.”

  She shook her head. “No, it wasn’t”

  Despair churned his gut. “We’ll fly out of here at first light,” he promised. “You’ll be safe.”

  “I’m already safe, Dix,” she began. She had to explain it to him, help him see.

  “No, Grace, I’ll protect you. Marry me,” he said, dropping to one knee. He winced at the pain in his back, but repeated the words. “Marry me. If you’re already married to me, you can’t be forced to marry him.”

  Joy blossomed within her. “I won’t have to marry him, Dix. You’re him.” The words tumbled out, and pulled him to the bench, gripping his hands. “In the dream, all I saw was his jaw, hard and sharp,” she said, stroking a hand lightly over Dix’s bruised jaw. “And scars, here,” she pressed a gentle kiss to the three parallel grooves that lay on his cheek under and above his left eye. “And the hard twist of the lips,” she said, kissing him.

  She bent her head to kiss his hands, his raw knuckles.

  “And the uniform. That hated uniform.”

  “But...” he began, but she saw the realization dawn in his eyes. “It’s me. I wore the uniform. I dragged you out into th
e darkness.”

  “To save me.”

  “Yes,” he said, that lightning smile she loved crackling into full blown laughter. “Yes!”

  “So, I’m safe, you don’t have to sacrifice--” she began, but he cut her off.

  “Hush,” he said, pressing a finger to her lips. “I love you Grace Corvedale. If you’ll have me, I would be the happiest man on earth if you would do me the honor of becoming my wife.”

  Heart full, she returned his smile. “When you put it that way, how can I say no?”

  “I’d rather you said yes,” he said, caressing her cheek, tucking a loosened strand of hair behind her ear. “Will you?”

  “Yes.”

  He whooped, pulling her to him in a crushing grip, then winced over the pain in his wound.

  “Ow,” he complained, but he didn’t let her go.

  At noon, when the wind died down, they rolled open the doors of the hangar to a freezing but clear day. A soft breeze twitched a tattered windsock where it hung from a rusting pole. It twitched only a little, the way a cat’s tail twitches when it’s relaxed and happy.

  They had spent the better part of the night checking the plane, pulling out anything that would slow it down, stripping it as much as they could to conserve fuel.

  “Now it’s my turn, I guess,” Grace said as they loaded in what few supplies they’d scrounged from Kirken’s car. They’d found a full hamper of food in the back, so they had at least eaten well before they finally slept.

  Kirken’s car was in the hangar. The case on which Grace had hit her head was full of documents pertaining to troops and fortifications along the border with Luxembourg. That was the only luggage they loaded into the plane.

  Grace changed Dix’s bandages again, and dusted on sulfa powder to prevent infection. With that, they were ready to leave. If the wind favored them, they’d be in England by suppertime.

  If it didn’t...

  Dix checked her harness and kissed her one more time before he climbed into the second seat and strapped in. The air was cold and grew colder as they rose. The small towns and cities over which they flew on their circuitous route seemed remote and toy-like in the clear air.