Trying to imitate his ease and nonchalance, she followed, joining him behind the table. She had reached it unseen. He gave her hand a reassuring squeeze.
'For God's sake, stop it!' Catherine's voice rang out.
Hélène glanced around the edge of the tablecloth, but Edmond grabbed her arm and pointed toward the kitchen door. He wanted her to follow on his heels. She nodded. From across the room, the noises rose and fell.
'Oh God!' Catherine was crying. 'Oh God, where are you?'
Edmond nodded. Together he and Hélène began to crawl slowly and cautiously toward the stiff body of their beloved Michelle. Toward the rifles.
'Aghhhhh. . .' the soldier hammering at Catherine bellowed.
Edmond and Hélène were halfway between the table and Michelle. Fascinated, they stole another glance backward. The soldier was thrashing against her much faster now. Sweat poured from his flushed forehead, and the purple veins on his temples protruded so far Hélène thought they would burst.
'Aghhhhh! Aghhhhh! Aghhhhh. . .' Spasms racked his body.
Edmond prodded Hélène to move on. She hastily crawled after him, and they didn't look back until they had reached Michelle. By that time the soldier, eyes squeezed shut, was beginning to catch his breath. Catherine was sobbing softly. Hélène felt another wave of nausea rising in her throat, but she didn't need to do much to stifle it. The German did it for her. He was staring straight toward her and Edmond. 'Verdammte Scheiss Kinder!' he roared abruptly. He pointed an angrily shaking finger.
Marie began to wail again, her cries sounding hollow coming from inside the dumbwaiter.
'Quickly!' Edmond shouted. 'Quickly—get behind me!'
Hélène was frozen to the spot, 'I. . .I can't move!' she whispered.
Edmond grabbed her arm and yanked her toward the kitchen door. Wasting no time, he took advantage of the soldiers' surprise. He picked up the rifle nearest him and swung it straight out in front of him, narrowly missing Michelle's head. The barrel glistened blue-black and oily. It was heavy. A man can hold such a rifle steady. In the hands of a child it wavers. But hatred makes adrenaline flow freely, so it was hatred that held up that rifle, not Edmond Junot.
Edmond squinted as he peered along the barrel the way he had seen actors do in cowboy films. But cinemas do not teach a boy how to shoot. Tanks and rifles had been common in Paris for years now, and Edmond and his friends had studied them from close and afar, exchanged notes on the mechanics of them. Thus it was that Edmond, a mere eleven-year-old child, knew where the safety catch was. And now he released it.
The Germans didn't miss this action. Both stiffened perceptibly. There was hatred in their eyes. That and something else that hadn't been there a few moments earlier. Fear.
'Runter, du verdammtes Schwein!' the Boche on top of Catherine yelled, too unnerved to search his mind for the elusive French words. With his hands he motioned Edmond to lower the rifle and put it down. The other soldier bent over and pulled his pants up, but his angry eyes never left them, not even while fastening his belt. He took a step in Edmond's direction.
Hélène was terribly afraid. 'Now!' she cried. 'Now, Edmond. Shoot!'
Frowning, her brother hesitated. The heavy rifle swung back and forth in an arc in his trembling hands.
The soldier slowly stepped closer. His angry face was flushed, and his dark eyes flashed. 'Come on. Hand it over,' he coaxed in bad French.
Edmond stared at him dully.
'Come on, put it down.' His voice was gentler now. 'Nothing's going to happen, boy.'
Hélène knew it was a trick to get the rifle out of Edmond's hands. And if that happened, then what? Would they all be killed? All she knew was that Edmond mustn't hand the rifle over.
'Come on,' the soldier said in a calculating soft voice. 'Be a good boy and lay it down.'
Oh, how Hélène despised that deceptive voice. And now the German was attempting a benign smile. Her heart was pounding wildly. Oh, Edmond please do something. Don't be fooled! Do something quickly. . .while there's still time.
The Boche was closer now. His left hand reached out for the rifle. He approached slowly, like a man nearing a cobra, with infinite caution. 'Lay it down,' he said in a soft whisper. 'Nothing's going to happen.' His voice was seductive. You have a chance, it seemed to say. A chance not to do anything monstrous you'll be sorry for later.
Instinctively Edmond took a step backward toward Hélène.
'Edmond,' she warned between clenched teeth. 'Edmond. . .'
The Nazi's eyes flashed angrily upon her. He was afraid her pleas might influence her brother. The other soldier was staring with a grim expression on his face. Marie was quiet.
The Boche's hand had almost reached the barrel. It was trembling. 'Come on. Steady,' the voice said softly. 'That's right. Steady, boy. . .'
'Edmond!' Catherine screamed as she tried to sit up and push the other soldier away. Hélène looked over at her. Catherine's eyes were frightened ovals. 'Edmond!' she screamed. 'For God's sake—'
'Halt's maul!' the soldier screamed suddenly, and backhanded her viciously. She fell back with a screech of pain as her head hit the carpet with a dull thud.
A strangled cry of rage issued forth from the depths of Edmond's throat, and he pulled the trigger. There was a flash. Simultaneously, a blast shook the room. Maman's good china in the armoire rattled. From the dumbwaiter Marie let out a high-pitched wail. And then, as suddenly as the room had seemed to explode, it was so quiet that Hélène dared not breathe. She was afraid it would intrude on the silence. Even Marie suddenly quieted down. The acrid odor of cordite passed over them like a curse. For the first time that afternoon Hélène noticed the steady, persistent ticking of the grandfather clock by the front door. Then she glanced at Edmond and sucked in her breath.
He still held the rifle out in front of him, but his face was dull, dazed. He didn't seem to realize that he was hurt. A stream of blood ran down his neck from his mouth, and he was missing two front teeth. When he had squeezed the trigger, the butt of the rifle had hit him squarely in the jaw as the recoil threw him back against Hélène. But he had managed to retain his footing, and he still squinted along the barrel.
The soldier in front of Edmond was no more. At pointblank range, he'd had no chance. The bullet had smashed into his chest, and his ribs and lungs had shattered into a million flying fragments that slammed haphazardly against the wall as he'd been flung backward. Bits of bone and bloodied flesh were embedded in the wallpaper.
There was one less Nazi on French soil. He was a Boche no more. Just like Michelle was no more.
I never even screamed, Hélène thought.
The other Boche stared at Edmond with stone-cold eyes.
Edmond gestured at him with the rifle. 'Pull up your pants,' he said in a hollow voice.
There was a moment of quiet tension. Then the Boche started to bend forward.
'Very slowly,' Edmond warned. 'Otherwise. . .' Unspoken, the threat hung heavy in the air.
Slowly the Boche pulled up his pants and tucked in his shirt. His face was expressionless, but Hélène saw that his eyes were wary. They never left Edmond, not for a fleeting instant. When he finished buckling his belt he let his hands drop alongside his thighs. His fingers were splayed and rigid. Instinctively Hélène knew why. He was waiting for an opportunity to pounce.
Edmond lowered the rifle slightly and looked toward Catherine. 'Get up,' he told her gently.
She turned her tear-streaked face toward him. With the palms of her hands she wiped her eyes.
'Go and fetch some clothes,' Edmond said. His voice was thick with emotion. 'Go. Get dressed.'
Catherine nodded. Eyes downcast, she managed to stagger to her feet. Feebly her hands covered her pubis. She looks so haggard, Hélène thought. So. . .so ashamed. A hot, prickling humiliation began to spread through Hélène. Then with a shock she noticed that Catherine's thighs were smeared with blood. Quickly she averted her eyes.
Suddenly the Boch
e made his move. Hélène's eyes caught the blur of movement, and her heart jumped. In vain she tried to cry out a warning. Her throat was frozen with terror.
She heard Edmond's gasp. He saw too, but it was too late. For one split second he had taken his eye off the Boche, and that instant was all it took.
With split-second timing the Boche dived at Catherine and tackled her legs. She toppled back to the floor and grunted as the wind was knocked out of her. Then, pulling her up in front of him, using her limp body as a shield, the Boche got to his feet. He had one arm wrapped around her neck and something flashed in his hand. A pocketknife, the point of it pressed against her throat. Not hard enough to puncture, but enough to depress the soft skin where the point of the blade rested. Her eyes were wide with terror; her mouth was open and gasping for air.
'Drop the rifle or I'll slit her throat,' the Boche said quietly. His eyes were narrowed and he looked at Edmond with contempt.
Hélène stared at the Boche. There was no mistaking that he meant every word. Edmond didn't move. His somber face was wet. He had broken out in a cold sweat. There was nothing he could do now, but still he held the rifle in front of him.
The knife point pressed harder against Catherine's throat. Then a bead of blood appeared and slid slowly down her neck.
'Drop that rifle,' the Boche repeated.
Helpless, Edmond let go of the rifle. With a clatter it fell at his feet.
The Boche's lips spread into a thin cruel smile. He eased the pressure of the knife but still held it close to Catherine's throat. Clumsily he stepped forward.
He was face to face with Edmond now. With one swift movement he kicked the rifle behind him, toward the foyer. 'You fools,' he hissed. Hélène could smell the garlic on his breath.
She felt the shiver of gooseflesh and slowly let her eyes roam toward the door. Something told her that they were not the only ones in the house anymore. She had heard nothing, but she sensed someone else's presence. She was right. She saw a man slip stealthily from the shadows of the foyer into the dining room. This was no Boche. She stared at him in recognition. Could it be? Her heartbeat quickened. Yes, it was Monsieur Laval, Papa's friend. Hélène's eyes met his. He paused and held a finger to his lips, not five feet from the Boche, when a floorboard creaked. Startled, the Boche let go of Catherine and spun around. He cursed and his arm shot out in a wide arc. Hélène heard the knife whistle through the air. Monsieur Laval ducked low, but the blade grazed his winter coat, slicing open the thick wool down to the lining. Hélène shuddered. Beside him, swaying dizzily, stood Catherine.
'Catherine!' Hélène screamed. 'Catherine!'
Catherine stared at her with blank eyes. She was lost in some fog only she was aware of.
'Catherine!' Hélène screamed again. 'Move away from them!'
Now her words penetrated the fog. Catherine snapped out of it and scrambled out of the way. Hélène took her ice-cold hand.
Once again the knife sliced through the air. Hélène could hear it before she saw it. Monsieur Laval flung himself to one side, brought up his knee, and slammed it into the Boche's groin. The Boche let out a scream of pain and doubled over. The knife fell from his grasp and his face turned a sickly gray. Then he slumped to the floor. He lay on one side in a fetal position, hands pressed against his groin.
Monsieur Laval took a handkerchief out of his coat pocket and wiped his forehead. He was still breathing rapidly from the exertion of the fight. He was no longer a young man.
'Monsieur Laval!' Hélène said suddenly. Fiercely she tugged at his coat. 'They've taken Maman away! The Nazis have taken Maman!'
As he looked down at her she saw the compassion in his tired brown eyes. He put his hands on her shoulders and pressed her close to him, the way Maman always did. But his belly wasn't warm like hers, or soft like Michelle's. His coat was cold and rough. Hélène didn't like the scratchy feel of it. It didn't comfort her at all. For the first time that afternoon she began sobbing.
Gently Monsieur Laval pushed her away and squatted down until both their faces were level. He looked deep into her eyes. 'Yes, Hélène,' he said quietly. 'They took your Maman. But we mustn't let them take you, must we?'
She shook her head silently.
'Good. Then you be a brave girl and wipe your eyes.'
She sniffed and nodded and did as she was told.
'There. That's better.' He forced a smile with his lips. 'Now, I want you to listen carefully. Will you do that?'
'Yes.' Hélène's wavering voice was thick.
'You have to leave this house right now,' he said. 'It isn't safe for you here. Do you understand?'
Again she nodded her head.
'Good. I will take you someplace where you will be safe.' Monsieur Laval got to his feet and glanced toward Catherine. For the first time he noticed her bloodied thighs. He stared at her in shock. 'You poor girl,' he murmured, shaking his head. 'They are worse than animals!'
Catherine turned her face away in shame.
'Don't!' Monsieur Laval said sharply. 'Don't be ashamed! Ever! You have done nothing wrong. You must remember that!'
'Yes.' Catherine's voice was a whisper. 'Yes. I'll remember.'
'Now, run upstairs and put some clothes on,' he told her. 'But don't wash up. There isn't time.'
Catherine nodded and dashed from the room.
Monsieur Laval looked at the Boche, then at Edmond. 'I'll need a towel and a sturdy rope.'
'Will a laundry line do?' Edmond looked at him questioningly.
Monsieur Laval nodded. 'A laundry line will do just fine.'
Without another word, Edmond left. Hélène heard him rummaging in the kitchen. A minute later he came back out, holding the towel and a length of white rope. Monsieur Laval kicked the Boche over on his belly, then bent down and with the rope began to truss him expertly. That done, he gagged him with the towel. The Boche whimpered with fright. So he wasn't that brave after all, Hélène thought with satisfaction.
Catherine came back downstairs already dressed. Without looking at anyone, she headed straight for the dumbwaiter, picked up Marie, and held her close.
Monsieur Laval looked around. 'Everyone ready?' he asked.
In silence the children nodded. They didn't waste another moment going through the kitchen and out the back door. Behind them, a single gong from the grandfather clock announced that it was three-thirty. Less than a half-hour had passed since Hélène was playing in the park with Antoinette. Less than a half-hour, and her life had changed. Forever.
With Monsieur Laval in the lead, they ran across the brittle, crusty snow lying frozen on the ground of the courtyard. It crunched beneath their feet. They passed the rusty old barrel that was used to collect rainwater for the garden. It was covered with ice. Something deep inside Hélène told her she would never see it again. High above their heads, the familiar laundry lines crisscrossed the courtyard. Laundry hung stiffly in the biting wind. Then they ran through the dark, tunnel like passageway of the building across from theirs.
They were on the run. For their lives.
4
The house was located at the end of a short, dark alley that branched off the one they traveled. Monsieur Laval halted in front of the door of 17 rue Jules Talet and hit the buzzer three times in quick succession.
The building was ancient and dingy and gray. Like all the other houses in the district, it looked like the tenants had always lived in a near-poverty level. There was a mailbox next to the door, but it didn't have any name tags on it. Hélène looked up. All the windows were dark,
Just when she thought no one was home, the door opened abruptly and a flood of yellow light poured out into the alley. A bald, heavyset Negro giant was silhouetted dimly against the light. His massive black arms were folded in front of his chest.
Monsieur Laval took off his beret and murmured something under his breath.
The giant turned toward the children, his eyes hard and appraising. Then he stepped aside and motioned them to en
ter. Silently they slipped past him into the hallway. The heavy door shut behind them.
Hélène glanced at Edmond. His eyes had widened as much as hers. Outside, the house had looked old and dilapidated. Inside, it was luxurious to a fault. The first thing Hélène noticed was how warm it was. Their own home had always been cold and drafty; this one was practically a blast furnace. The furnishings were antiques. There were crystal chandeliers, fine blue-and-white Oriental vases, and thick rugs. The walls were covered with rich red fabric, and to either side of a pair of handsome double doors stood massive bronze torcheres. These torcheres were in the shape of muscular Moors. Each held a many-branched candelabrum aloft.
The giant motioned them to wait. He walked toward the big doors, knocked once, and entered. For a moment Hélène could hear the hum of conversation and the clear tinkling of a woman's laughter suspended in the air. Then the doors closed behind him and there was silence.
Hélène glanced around the hallway. Catherine was leaning wearily against the wall. After a half-hour of carrying Marie, her arms seemed to sag under the weight. Edmond was gingerly touching one of the torcheres. He behaved as if it might suddenly come to life and bite him. Monsieur Laval was standing back to back with him, his lower lip jutting out slightly and his squinting eyes thoughtful. His beret was clutched limply in his hands.
A moment later the doors opened and the giant came back out. He was followed by a tiny lady who walked with slow, delicate steps. She was Oriental. Hélène stared in rapt fascination. Never before had she seen anyone so exotic. There were the murmur and scent of faraway places, of orchids and water lilies and unspoken taboos. Her skin was pale and her hair was jet black. Worn loose, it hung all the way to her waist. Her eyes shone brightly in the lights of the torcheres. They were slanted, black, and shrewd. Her red gown was of shiny silk and fit snugly, cut low to emphasize her figure. Though she was very slim, her breasts were large. From around her neck a platinum chain dangled a huge marquise-cut diamond into the cleft of her bosom. In the winter of 1944 that sparkle was obscene.
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