Yes, she understood. She was Eloise Goyon, and he was her brother, Henri. Catherine and Marie were alien to them. Both Papa and Maman were dead. Papa grew champignons (in a cave like the one they'd spent last night in, no doubt). And if the Boches got violent (like they had with poor Maman), Hélène was to act crazy or childish. That should not be too difficult, she thought. Michelle had often been exasperated by her fits and tantrums.
They stared out the open back of the truck, but their view was restricted to the truck that followed behind theirs and the skeletal trees that lined the road. Once in a while, when they turned corners, she caught glimpses of a frozen-over river. By its size she could tell that it was not the Loire. It was one of the smaller tributaries. Then suddenly they arrived at the Boche headquarters. She was surprised at the beauty of the building. But of course, she thought; the Boches always appropriated the best of everything. So too with their headquarters. It was located in a breathtaking old chateau that had been built right over the willow-lined river.
Built of pale white stone, it rose in splendor above the iced-over water, which, she assumed, served as a sort of reflecting pool in warmer weather. There were four corner turrets, massive cornices and machicolations and large double-mullioned windows. The green mansard roofs sported decorative dormers and fairly bristled with chimneys.
It would have been a beautiful chateau at any given time, and still was, but the imprint of the Boches was unmistakable. Part of the Italian gardens had been bulldozed flat in order to make a dirt parking lot. The entrance steps were flanked by stiff, gray-uniformed guards. Two huge flags hung from poles extending out from the machicolations. One was the ubiquitous swastika banner. The other sported twin Z-shaped S's.
Hélène had yet to discover what the S's stood for.
The tailgate of the truck dropped with a clatter and one of the guards prodded them with his rifle. Edmond and Hélène hopped down onto the parking lot. Then they were hurried up the wide, imposing steps and through the heroically carved double doors. Hélène was wide-eyed. Never before had she seen such luxury. But it was cold luxury. There was no central heating, only the enormous, inefficient fireplaces.
They stopped in the long, high-ceilinged hallway. She looked around in fascination. Here were painted wooden beams, massive tapestries, elegant silk-upholstered bergeres, and gleaming parquet. All this beauty was marred by the ugly, functional pieces necessary to the bureaucracy Metal filing cabinets and masses of telephone cables incongruously vied for attention with a magnificent ormolu desk.
The soldier escorts drew themselves up and stiffly saluted a bald, monocled officer who sat behind it. There was an exchange of words, but it was all in German so Hélène couldn't understand any of it. Finally the monocled officer nodded. He picked up his telephone receiver and spoke softly into it. A moment later a young, fair-haired Boche arrived. Papers were signed and exchanged, and the Boches who had brought them here drew themselves up again and thrust out their right arms.
'Heil Hitler!' they chorused.
Wearily the officer returned a haphazard salute. 'Heil Hitler,' he murmured dryly. Snappily the two Boches turned on their heels and strode off.
Now the fair-haired young guard was in charge. He led Edmond and Hélène through the chateau. They passed an elegant, balustraded staircase, turned right into a gloomy corridor, and then descended a steep flight of much less elegant steps to what was obviously the cellar of the chateau.
The basement room was round, probably located in one of the turrets on the shore side. It was damp, cold, and windowless. It smelled of mildew. Indeed, in the garish glare of the solitary bulb that was screwed into the ceiling, they could see that the stone walls were white with mold.
The worst thing of all was the waiting. She and Edmond must have been kept in that room for half a day. They were seated on a hard wooden bench that faced a long trestle table and a comfortable-looking tapestry-covered chair. Hélène had to pee badly. Each time she told the Boche, he gave her a blank stare. She thought he didn't understand French.
Whenever she heard footsteps out in the corridor, she would look up with a mixture of hope and dread. Hope that perhaps someone would come to release them. Dread that it could just as easily be their executioner. But always the footsteps passed by, and then she would hear a door opening and closing.
For what must have been the hundredth time, she looked up. Once again she could hear voices and footsteps outside in the corridor. Then suddenly the door flew open with a clap and the guard snapped to attention. Two more gray-uniformed Boches marched into the room. Behind them was a fat, red-faced sergeant. And behind him . . .
Hélène's eyes widened in shock and she began to tremble. She could feel Edmond jabbing her with his elbow, warning her to keep her composure. She tried to keep from shaking, to make her face look natural. But how could she? She was sick.
Sick, because the German in the elegant black breeches and gleaming knee boots was all too familiar. His face was cruel, narrow, and skull-shaped, his chin was cleft, his lips bloodless. His skin was white and colorless, and the polished visor of his peaked cap was pulled down low over his eyes. Still, she could glimpse those eyes. Those pinkish, satanic eyes that seemed to glow evilly from within when the light lit them.
He was the one who had spit into Maman's face.
He was the one who had barked: 'Show her how we punish liars and traitors.'
He was the Evil One himself.
When he entered the room, he had one gloved hand tucked in the small of his back. Suddenly he looked away, as if to shield his eyes. He made a rapid gesture at the bulb on the ceiling.
The fat sergeant puffed his belly out importantly. 'Zu befehl, Herr Obersturmbannfiihrer!' he shouted. Without needing to be told, his plump red fingers hit the light switch and the room was plunged into darkness.
Now the only light came from out in the corridor. Against it, the Boches were demon silhouettes throwing grotesque shadows across the floor. It was easy to imagine that the eerie yellow light was the glow of hell's fires.
The sergeant hurried off down the hall and disappeared, his heels clicking swiftly on the stone floor. A few minutes later he returned carrying a lamp. It must have been the only lamp he could get his hands on quickly. The base was ormolu and sprouted into a large onyx ostrich egg. The shade was silk. Promptly this lamp was set down on the trestle table and plugged into an outlet. The silk shade glowed delicately. In that dismal room it was an anachronism of luxury.
While the others stood stiffly against the wall, the white-faced Boche sat down in the tapestry-covered chair and crossed his legs. Once again he made a rapid gesture with his hand. Instantly the sergeant stepped forward and produced a sheet of paper.
The Boche held up the paper and studied it intently. It was illuminated from behind by the lamp, and Hélène could see through it. She held her breath. Printed on the other side were three sketches. Gisele's sketches.
Edmond noticed them too. He pressed his leg against hers, trying to ease her fears.
The pink eyes flickered between the pictures on the paper and the children. The white face showed dissatisfaction, unsureness.
The Boche twisted around and looked up at the sergeant. 'Es konnte diese Kinder sein,' he said. 'Ich weiss nicht. Jeder der Ihnen gesehen hat, hatte bei diese Gleichnisse geschworen. Aber'—he rattled the paper ominously—'Ich bin nicht zufrieden.' He glanced sharply at the sergeant. 'Schmidt! Bringen Sie mir das Madchen!'
'Jawohl, Herr Obersturmbannfuhrer!' The sergeant clicked his heels together and once again hurried off.
Schmidt, Hélène thought. That must be the sergeant's name.
The white-faced Boche stared coldly at her. Then he pointed a gloved finger at Edmond. 'What is your name?' he demanded in the same badly accented French Hélène remembered hearing when they hid in the dumbwaiter.
'Henri Goyon,' Edmond replied. His voice sounded calm enough, but Hélène could feel his leg twitching spastically against hers.
Swiftly the Boche's finger switched directions. The pink eyes were on Hélène now. 'What is your name?'
'Eloise Goyon,' she said with dignity.
The Boche leaned back in his chair and steepled his gloved fingers. He regarded Hélène thoughtfully. 'And where do you live, Eloise Goyon?' he asked coldly.
'In Saumur.'
'Where is your mother?'
She sniffed and wiped her nose. 'Maman is dead.'
'And your father?'
'Dead, too.'
'What did he do for a living?'
'He worked under the ground.'
The Boche looked at her sharply. 'He was in the underground?'
'No, monsieur,' Edmond cut in quickly. 'He worked in a cave.'
The pink eyes narrowed suspiciously, and Hélène could almost feel their malevolent heat. 'A cave?'
'Yes, monsieur,' she said. 'Papa grew champignons. See?' On an impulse, she reached into her pocket for one of the mushrooms they'd picked two days ago and held it out toward him.
He wrinkled his nose in distaste and motioned for her to put it away. Then he turned and glared up at the Germans who had led him to this room. Both of them seemed to shrink against the wall. They knew he was displeased. Hélène hoped it was because he thought he was wasting his time. That she and Edmond had convinced him they were not the children he was looking for. After all, Gisele's sketches of Edmond and her didn't really look like them. Especially not after they had to cut each other's hair.
Now she could hear two sets of footsteps coming down the hall. The sergeant must be returning with someone, she thought. She wondered who it could be.
The footfalls got louder as they approached. 'Mach's schnell!' the sergeant snapped impatiently.
'All right, all right, I'm hurrying,' a low voice replied.
Hélène's heart began to thump wildly. How well she recognized that voice.
It was Catherine's.
So she, too, had been captured by the Boches. Then Hélène froze, realizing the enormity of Catherine's presence. The Boches were going to use her to help identify Edmond and herself. And unsuspectingly, Catherine would come into the room and throw her arms around them. It would be the kiss of Judas in all sincerity. In all innocence.
Faintly, so very faintly that even she could barely hear it, Edmond began to hum a tune. It was the same tune he had sung in the truck.
He was trying to tell Hélène something. But what? Her mind raced. Then the words of his song came back to her:
Should they show us the picture of our sister, remember: Do not flick an eyebrow, get nervous, or recognize her.
Suddenly she understood. He was telling her that they must turn their backs on Catherine. That she mustn't give any indication of knowing her. Hélène looked hesitantly at the door, and her soul was in torment. She must treat her sister like a stranger.
It was an agonizing position to be put in. Hélène wanted to rush out into the hall and throw her arms around Catherine. Yet the situation demanded her to denounce her, to deny the fact that she was her flesh and blood. But even if she did that, what was the use? Whether they pretended to know her or not, Catherine would still recognize them.
Hélène couldn't ponder the situation any further, because the footsteps had reached the door. The sergeant gave Catherine a push and she stumbled into the room ahead of him.
11
Hélène mustered a blank expression and looked up at her sister. It was Catherine, all right, but she had changed. The gaunt, stringy-haired girl who stood there clutching a baby against her breast looked haggard and broken. Spiritless. Her eyes were without life, and her body seemed to sag. Hélène noticed that Maman's ring gleamed on her finger.
'Look!' the white-faced Boche said tauntingly. 'We have found your brother and sister!'
Catherine turned her head and looked at Hélène. Hélène thought her eyes flickered for a moment, but it was so brief that she couldn't be sure. 'Who are they?' Catherine murmured listlessly.
'You don't recognize them?' he asked.
Catherine shook her head slowly. 'No,' she whispered hoarsely.
'You mean you've never seen them before?'
She shook her head again.
The pink eyes narrowed. 'If we find out that you're lying, you are going to die. Do you know that?'
'Yes,' she said quietly.
'And it's not them?'
Catherine's face was expressionless. 'No. I already told you that.'
'I don't believe you!' he accused.
She shrugged sadly. 'Believe what you want,' she said wearily. 'It doesn't make any difference.'
The Boche sighed. Slowly he pushed himself to his feet and came around the table toward Hélène. His hand shot out and caught her by the collar and pulled her to her feet. He shook her roughly. 'Is she your sister?'
Hélène looked over at Catherine and shook her head. Then all at once he lashed Hélène across the face. She grunted as the pain shot through her, and she tottered toward the table. Her hand flew up to her nose. Her fingers touched something wet. Blood.
He looked at Catherine. 'You still don't recognize them?' he shouted.
'No,' Catherine persisted.
He hit Hélène again. This time she tumbled to the floor. For a moment she lay there crying softly. When he turned away from her, Edmond squatted down, helping her back up.
The Boche reached into one of his pockets and selected a cigarette from a gold case. Deliberately he tapped the end of it on the case. The sergeant leaped forward to light it.
The Boche inhaled deeply, staring thoughtfully at Catherine. 'Put the baby down,' he ordered.
Catherine looked around for a place to put Marie.
'On the table.'
She hesitated. Then gently she carried Marie over to it and laid her down. She whispered softly, soothingly stroking her little head.
'Now step back.'
Reluctantly Catherine obeyed. There was a knowing look of fear in her eyes.
The Boche handed the cigarette to the sergeant and pointed to Marie. Noisily Catherine drew in her breath. 'No!' she cried. 'Don't! Please!' She reached for the Boche's sleeve and tugged it desperately. 'I beg of you!'
He threw her loose and slapped her. Instantly her cheek turned white, his handprint standing out clearly. Grimly he turned and then faced Edmond and Hélène in turn, his bleak eyes gleaming evilly. There was a crooked smile on his face. Then he spun back around and faced the sergeant. 'Jetzt!' he commanded.
In horror Hélène watched the sergeant unbuttoning Marie's little suit. Slowly he brought the glowing end of the cigarette down on her belly and held it there. Marie let out a terrible shriek and began to kick her little legs frantically. Her screaming seemed to go on and on. The two Boches standing against the wall looked away. Catherine's face was pale, and tears rolled down her cheeks.
And it was then that Hélène swore it. Someday, she thought. Someday, if they managed to get out of here, she would make those horrible creatures pay for what they were doing. She would make them pay and pay and pay. She didn't know how. She didn't know when. She didn't know much, but at least she knew the sergeant's name. That was a start.
'Please!' Catherine begged. 'Leave the baby alone!'
The cruel smile was frozen on the bloodless lips. 'Well? Are you ready to admit that these children are your brother and sister?'
Hélène held her breath and watched Catherine. She seemed to slump in agony, but her voice was calm. 'How many times do I have to tell you? It's not them.'
Angrily he brought his fist down on the table. Marie shrieked again as the lamp toppled over. The shade cushioned the bulb from the fall, but now it glared in the Boche's eyes.
He turned away from the table and motioned for the sergeant to draw back. Then he faced the other two. 'Release them,' he spat out in French, pointing at Edmond and Hélène.
Hélène glanced at her sister. For a moment a triumphant look glinted deep within Catherine's eyes. Then it was gone
.
The Boche's voice rose. 'As for the idiots who brought them here, I want to see them immediately. They are going to be sent to the Russian front!'
Schmidt cleared his throat and pointed questioningly at Catherine.
'The girl and the baby get the usual treatment.' The Boche made an irritable gesture. 'Arrange for their transportation to Poland.'
Catherine's expression didn't change, but her body no longer seemed to sag. She held herself with a kind of quiet dignity. It was the same kind of pride Hélène had often seen in Maman's bearing. Maman would have been proud of Catherine.
Then angrily, as if he didn't want to waste another precious second, the white-faced Boche strode out of the room.
Schmidt stayed behind. He grabbed Catherine by the arm. She nodded wordlessly.
Hélène was the only one who noticed that Catherine had worked Maman's ring loose from her finger. When she bent down to pick Marie back up, she quickly slipped the ring under the lampshade.
For a moment the two sisters' eyes met. 'Take the ring,' Catherine's expression seemed to say. Hélène nodded imperceptibly.
Then Catherine was gone.
Once again Edmond and Hélène were on their way. The wind had picked up, and they pulled their coats tightly around them. They didn't know where they were. The surrounding countryside was hilly, densely forested, silent, and dark. Though they knew they must still be somewhere near the Loire, they couldn't see the river anywhere. It was late afternoon, and soon night would fall. Already the patches of light between the trees were no longer blue. They'd have to find shelter fast.
Only one thing gave Hélène strength. Hate. Already, so young, she was becoming consumed with destroying those who had separated her from her family. Those who had tortured first Maman, and now Marie. Yes, she was going to exact a heavy vengeance. Even if it took years. After all, she was young. She could afford to wait.
Schmidt, she thought once again. She mustn't forget that name, ever. A fat, red-faced sergeant named Schmidt. That was where she would begin, and by the time she was through, she would cut down the sinister white-faced Boche. But she would do it slowly. That way he would suffer.
Sins Page 13
