Hélène had closed her eyes. She didn't have to see the names listed. She knew very well who those two French children had been. But there they were on the document, jumping out at her from the German type.
Edmond Junot. . . Hélène Junot. There was something obscene about their being listed in this hellish document.
Von Eiderfeld's short career at Belsen was well-documented by the other papers. He had been the deputy military liaison between the death camp and private industry. There were requisition forms and correspondence signed by him. A receipt for a trainload of Zyclon B crystals from I. G. Farben. Approval for new, fast-burning incinerator devices from Topf und Sohn in Wiesbaden. The crystals had been used for gassing victims in the chambers, the oven to burn their bodies. The last order for a new consignment of Zyclon B had been signed a scant three weeks before Belsen was liberated. That was the most terrible thing of all. Even when it was clear that everything was lost, the Germans had done nothing to stop the senseless horrors. Almost everywhere, the wheels of destruction kept on turning until the very end.
Dr. Rosen sighed painfully and pushed the papers away. The tears came into his eyes again. 'This is a powder keg,' he said at last. He took off his glasses and slowly put them back in their case.
Hélène nodded slowly. 'I know,' she whispered. 'Even I had no idea there'd be all this.'
He looked up at her. 'What are you going to do?'
She came closer, sat down again, and looked across the desk at him. 'I don't know,' she said honestly. 'I'll have to think about it.' She glanced down at the papers and twisted her lips. 'I've thought of going to the Israeli authorities.'
He lifted his eyebrows. 'And?'
'I'm afraid they wouldn't punish him enough. I mean, there's bound to be a big trial and a lot of publicity. But the worst he'd get is to be hung or electrocuted or shot.' She gave a bitter shrug. 'I don't know if that's enough.'
Dr. Rosen's voice was gentle. 'What would be enough as far as you're concerned?'
She reached suddenly across the table and dug her hand into his wrist. Her eyes were hard and relentless. 'I want him to suffer,' she whispered vehemently. 'I want him to live in constant fear. He keeps himself well-hidden. When he leaves his house, he's driven directly to the garage of his office building in Düsseldorf. From there, a private elevator whisks him upstairs to his penthouse office. Few people have ever even seen him. He allows no pictures to be taken. Karl Haberle told me he posed as a reporter wanting to do an article on him for Der Spiegel. Not only could he not get near him, but he was warned off. Von Eiderfeld's scared, Simon. But I want him to run even more scared.' She grabbed some of the papers, held them up, and shook them angrily. 'I want to let him know I have these. I want to make certain he won't be able to sleep nights. I want him to worry himself sick for as long as he lives!'
Dr. Rosen heaved a big sigh. His face wore a fixed expression of sadness. 'The dispensation of justice is a heavy burden,' he said simply, 'and vengeance an even heavier one. It exacts more from the judge than the judged.'
She looked at him and nodded. He was right. The hold she had over Hubert proved that. Was it punishment enough just to dangle a constant threat over someone? The last time she'd forced Hubert to attend a meeting at Les Editions Hélène Junot, S.A., it seemed she had been more miserable than he. In fact, he had constantly challenged and taunted her to see just how far he could go.
Dr. Rosen patted her hand. 'Think it over well,' he advised in a gentle voice. 'Don't rush into anything.'
'I won't,' she promised. 'I'll wait until I've managed to get over some of my immediate anger. But somewhere, somehow, he's got to be made to pay!'
3
She looked out the window of the taxi as it swung onto the quiet elegance of the Boulevard Maillot. In front of the Comte's town house, she saw the familiar Rolls-Royce parked under the streetlamp.
She twisted around in her seat and looked back at the house. The lights shone in all the windows. That meant the Comte was in town.
For a moment she wished she had found Edmond a different apartment than the one on the Boulevard Maurice Barres. The trouble was, she always had to pass the Boulevard Maillot in order to get there, because the two short streets were actually part of the same long one that ran across the top of the Bois de Boulogne. There was only one way to get around it. In the future, she'd instruct her taxi driver to make a wide detour and come down along the Ancien Cimetiere de Neuilly.
It was she who had decided that Edmond should live on the Boulevard Maurice Barres. The location had seemed only natural. Petite Hélène would be practically across the street from the Jardin d'Acclimatation with its small zoo, amusement park, ponds, Enchanted River, and the Bois de Boulogne. It was the perfect place for a child to grow up. Where else was there the same enchanting mixture of city, nature, and fantasy? She had figured—rightly—that the chances of her ever running into the Comte were almost nonexistent. He was not the type of man who wasted time walking around the Bois. If he wasn't working, he was either at Hautecloque with the Comtesse or in the town house or a restaurant with his mistress. The only thing she hadn't figured on was the way she'd feel each time she passed by the town house.
When the cab pulled up in front of the big mansion which had been converted into apartments, she got out and paid the driver. As he meshed the gears and drove off, she tucked the gift-wrapped box under her right arm and went up the balustraded steps. In the lobby, she greeted the concierge and then took the little elevator to the third floor.
When it bobbed to a halt, she pushed the metal gate to one side and stepped out into the hall. Her heels clicked on the polished stone floor as she walked to the far end and rapped on the varnished-wood door.
A moment later she heard a click and the heavy door swung slowly open. Hélène looked down. Petite Hélène was standing there, bathed by the bright light from inside. Hélène caught her breath. The girl was gazing up at her almost shyly. Her eyes seemed bigger and bluer than the last time she'd seen her, her cheeks were the color of pale, ripening strawberries, and her delicate copper hair was like a fuzzy halo fashioned out of the softest down. In the back, it was gathered and tied with a dark blue silk ribbon. Her matching dress, styled along the lines of a painter's smock, was the one Hélène had given her on her last birthday, the dark blue wool trimmed with a Peter Pan collar of beautifully crocheted lace.
Petite Hélène showed off her manners to perfection and dropped a curtsy like a little princess. 'Bonsoir, Tante Hélène,' she sang formally.
Hélène smiled. 'Bonsoir, Petite Hélène.'
Suddenly the girl's cherubic face broke out in the most dazzling of smiles and her stiff manners dropped away like a veil off a painting. She flung her arms around Hélène's thighs and squeezed them. 'Tante Hélène! I'm so glad you've come,' she cried happily, her voice muffled as she buried her face in Hélène's skirt. 'I've waited for hours'
Hélène reached down with her free hand and held her niece close. Then gently she began to stroke the copper hair. It felt even softer than it looked. Suddenly her eyes dimmed over. Was this what her baby would have been like? So delicate, so fragile.
Then Jeanne bustled into the foyer and by reflex wiped her hands on her apron. 'You're late!' she reprimanded.
Hélène looked up and smiled apologetically. She handed Jeanne the bottle of red wine she had tucked under her arm along with the big package. 'Peace?' she asked in a small voice.
Jeanne looked at the wine and made a pretense of frowning. Finally she had to laugh. 'Peace,' she returned, leaning forward and kissing Hélène affectionately on the cheek.
Hélène returned the kiss. Every time she was around Jeanne, she could feel the flow of warmth and love in the air. It was in every corner of this house.
Jeanne took her by the arm and pulled her into the foyer. Hélène squatted down so that her face was level with Petite Hélène's. 'And this is for you, young lady,' she said in a solemn voice. She handed over the gift-wrapped pac
kage.
Petite Hélène's eyes got big as she took the box. She could barely contain her excitement. 'Merci beaucoup, Tante Hélène,' she managed to spurt out politely. Quickly she pecked Hélène on the lips and then staggered into the living room with the box.
'You're spoiling her,' Jeanne said disapprovingly as Hélène got back to her feet.
Hélène gave a little shrug. 'At her age you deserve to be spoiled a little. I want her to have everything I could never have.'
Jeanne smiled. 'We'll see if you change that tune once you have children of your own.'
Hélène felt her stomach beginning to cramp. She looked quickly away.
As they walked into the living room, Edmond looked up. He was sitting behind the big desk, his nose poked in a thick law book. He flashed a dazzlingly white grin across the room.
The dentist had done a good job, Hélène thought. Edmond hadn't wanted to go, but she had worked on him until he had finally gotten fed up with her nagging. It had been well worth it. A thousand francs was little enough to pay for replacing what the recoil of a Boche rifle had ruined when he was eleven. Somehow, she had never been able to get used to the gap when he smiled. Now she was satisfied. Edmond looked more handsome than ever. And no longer did he have that hungry look he'd had in Saint-Nazaire. He held himself with a confidence she had not seen before. The incidents with the Nazis and Tante Janine might never have happened. But she knew better.
Carefully Edmond marked his place and closed the book. Then he rose to his feet and quickly strode across the room. They embraced warmly. 'How are you, Little French Girl?' he asked softly, his breath warm in her ear.
'Fine, I suppose. Busy, at any rate,' she said, relishing the warm strength of his arms. For a moment she felt a foolish pang of jealousy toward Jeanne for holding title to his strength. She could remember what it had been like when they were children. How strong and protective he had been. You felt safe when you were in his arms, like nothing in the world could harm you. She wondered if she would ever find a man of her own who would be able to make her feel this way. As suddenly as they had come, the feelings of jealousy and yearning dropped away. Self-consciously she slipped out of his arms and stepped back. 'And. . .and you?' she asked awkwardly. 'How's school?'
'Some days are better than others.'
Jeanne came over to him and punched him good-naturedly. 'Nonsense,' she said proudly. 'Don't believe a word of it! My Edmond's at the head of his class.'
Hélène looked pleased; Edmond, perpetually ill-at-ease when hearing words of praise, flushed and studied his feet.
'Come and sit down,' Jeanne said. 'I'll uncork the wine. It's only a few minutes until we eat. Is there anything I can get you in the meantime?'
Hélène shook her head and obediently took a seat as Jeanne headed toward the kitchen. She tried her best to avoid looking around. That way her face wouldn't register the disappointment she felt whenever she saw the apartment. Quickly she amended her thoughts. It wasn't really disappointment.
Disillusionment, perhaps. It was the sort of feeling a magician must have if his rabbit crawled out of his sleeve at the wrong moment. She had tried her hand at magic and failed. She had tried to get Jeanne to spend the money necessary to buy the appropriate furnishings for this elegant apartment, but it was no use. Jeanne would purchase only fourth-rate items, insisting they would one day repay Hélène. Only Petite Hélène's little room at the far end of the hallway was lavishly decorated. This was because Hélène was determined that her niece was going to turn out to be a lady of taste and means. For her, only the best would do. She had seen to it that the bed which replaced the crib she had outgrown was fit for a princess. It was huge and soft, replete with a silken canopy, mountains of satin and lace pillows, and a shimmering white silk spread. This oasis of luxury vied for attention with the miniature French chairs she'd found in an antiques shop on the Left Bank, the small Venetian chandelier which looked like cake frosting. In one corner stood Petite Hélène's favorite item, a miniature vanity complete with neatly lined-up atomizers filled with yellow play perfume. Without Hélène's realizing it, Petite Hélène had become her surrogate child.
Now she smiled to herself as Petite Hélène knelt on the living room floor, her hands tugging impatiently at the bow of the satin ribbon tied around the package. Finally she got it off and handed it over to Jeanne, who had just come back out from the kitchen. Expertly Jeanne coiled the ribbon around her index finger, then went over to the desk and placed it in a cubbyhole. Petite Hélène started attacking the wrapping paper.
'Careful,' Jeanne warned her.
'Oui, Maman,' she said in a frustrated voice. What she really wanted was to rip the box apart. But obediently she unwrapped the tissue paper, smoothed it out on the floor, and folded it so that, like the ribbon, it too could be used over again.
Finally, with mounting suspense, she lifted the lid off the glossy white cardboard box. Then she held her breath as she reached in and dramatically parted the cover of white tissue paper. A cry of delight escaped unbidden from her lips.
For a long moment she could only stare at the doll that lay in a lavish nest of yet more tissue paper. Then slowly she lifted her out. It was one of the new dolls, the kind with jointed arms and legs that could be moved, soft and realistic plastic skin, and thickly lashed eyes that opened and shut. Her straight hair was so pale blond that it was almost white, and long enough to be combed and styled. Petite Hélène stroked it gently with her fingers. Each strand felt smooth and satiny, like real hair. This was more than just a doll, she was thinking. This was a beautiful little girl of her own. She was far more beautiful than any of the other dolls she had. This one would have the place of honor. She would always keep her right on top of the bed.
But what fascinated her most was the way the doll was dressed. For it was not a frothy concoction of lace over crinoline, but a perfectly tailored replica of the suit Hélène was wearing—a pale pink Odile Joly out of raw silk with a rich smattering of tiny nubs. Pinned to the lapel was a tiny brooch. It, too, was the same as the one Hélène wore, a gold circle encrusted with diamonds, but in miniature.
Petite Hélène struggled to her feet and hugged the doll. 'Ooooh! Je l'aime bien! Maman! Look, Maman!' Proudly she held the doll out.
Jeanne looked at it and shook her head. 'My word. . .' she began. Then she inspected the brooch closely, and suddenly a dark expression crossed her face. She shot Hélène a knowing look. The diamonds were real. They were not carats in weight but mere points; yet each one was fully faceted and cut.
Hélène shrugged. To stave off any further lectures on spoiling the child, she jumped to her feet and sniffed the air. 'Something smells like it's burning! It must be the food! And just when I'm starving!'
Jeanne had no choice now but to hurry back to the kitchen.
Hélène caught Petite Hélène's eye. They winked at each other. Then the girl studied the doll's eyes as they opened when she stood the doll up, and slowly floated shut as she was laid back down. Up again, and the eyes opened, unblinking and deep blue. Down again, and the lashes rested on the rosy cheeks.
Petite Hélène looked up. 'I already know what I'm going to name her,' she declared.
Hélène smiled. 'Are you going to tell me?'
The little girl nodded and went over to her. 'Can you keep a secret?' she asked in a semiwhisper.
Hélène nodded solemnly.
Petite Hélène's eyes were fixed on Hélène's. 'There's only one name that's elegant enough for her.'
'Oh? And what's that?'
'She's going to be named after a queen,' Petite Hélène gestured for her aunt to bend down. Then she stood on tiptoe, placed her lips next to Hélène's ear, and whispered softly. The little girl's breath was like an icy chill. 'Antoinette!'
Hélène froze. Her eyes were focused on another dimension. There was no way Petite Hélène could have known of her own doll, Antoinette.
'Don't you think that's a pretty name?'
'Y
es, it's. . .it's a very pretty name,' Hélène managed to say.
4
After Petite Hélène had gone to bed, the adults sat around the living room as they had once sat around the kitchen in Saint-Nazaire. Jeanne took out her sewing and Edmond stoked the fire in the fireplace. He smoked and drank peacefully, his feet up on a hassock. Hélène was content just to sit there, sipping her wine and soaking up the warm family atmosphere. They spoke of bygone days and caught up on the latest news. Inevitably their talk got around to Les Modes.
'I'll never forget the night of the publication party,' Hélène said, 'when the first issue came off the press. Strangely enough, no one was in a good mood that night. I guess they were all overworked. And to think that I rented the ballroom in the Georges V for the occasion! Finally I couldn't take any more of it and I just left. Well, Jacques knew where to find me. He came to the office at three in the morning, and there I was, wandering around like a lost soul, wondering where all the thrills and excitement had gone.' She smiled at the memory. 'I'll never forget it. He had a big paper bag, and in it was a chilled bottle of Dom Perignon and two Baccarat glasses. We sat and drank champagne till everyone came to work in the morning. Then we went home.' She shook her head and smiled again. 'The glasses are now on the shelf in my office.'
Jeanne glanced up from the sock she was darning. 'You mean the ones engraved 'Les Modes, Volume 1, Number 1'?' she asked.
Hélène looked somewhat embarrassed. 'I'd forgotten that I must have told you that story already. Anyway enough of all this,' she said firmly, changing the subject. 'Tell me what's happening with you.'
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