Never Leave Me

by Margaret Pemberton

  ‘Will we have any warning?’ she asked curiously. ‘Will we know beforehand?’

  He thought of the message to be transmitted to the Resistance. ‘No,’ he said, vowing that when the war was over he would never lie to her again. ‘There will be no warning.’

  They lay in the lamplit darkness, arms entwined, and he thought once again of Rommel’s words. ‘The Anglo-Americans have lost confidence in their cause.’ If they had, how long would it be before they knew for sure? How long before they sued for peace? Before a semblance of normality returned to the world? He wanted all the things he had previously derided as bourgeois: marriage, children. And he wanted them in a world that was at peace.

  She saw his eyes darken; saw the familiar white lines of tension etch the corners of his mouth. ‘What is it?’ she asked, loving him so much that it was a physical pain. ‘What are you thinking about, Dieter?’

  ‘About you. About us.’

  ‘Then be happy, not unhappy,’ she said, and rolling over in one swift movement she pressed her naked body against his, lifting her arms around his neck, kissing away the lines of strain.

  Their bodies were their refuge. In their lovemaking there were no divisions. No yawning gulf stretching between them that could not be crossed. There was only happiness and delight and unity. ‘I love you,’ he said hoarsely, folding his arms around her, twisting her beneath him. ‘Never forget it, Lisette. No matter what happens. Never forget …’

  More intelligence reports came, stating that the British were demanding Churchill’s resignation and their government’s surrender. He wondered how accurate they were. All the British he had ever met had been mulish and pig-headed. He couldn’t imagine any of them surrendering, no matter how lost their cause. And thanks to Germany’s folly in attacking Russia, their cause was no longer lost. Germany had over-reached herself. She had not enough men, enough planes, to fight a war on two fronts. He knew damn well what he would do if he were Churchill. He would attack now; in the under-belly that was Normandy; and he knew, with terrible foreboding, that if he did so, he would, within weeks, be in the heart of the Fatherland.

  He met Henri de Valmy the next morning as he was striding across the cobbles towards his Horch and Henri was returning from his pre-breakfast walk. ‘Excuse me, Comte de Valmy, could I have a word with you, please?’ he asked civilly.

  Henri stiffened. Ever since the shooting of Gilles and Caldron he had had as little to do with the Major as possible. ‘If you wish,’ he said coldly, thrusting his hands deep into his cardigan pockets.

  ‘Not here,’ Dieter said as he signalled to his chauffeur that he was no longer needed. ‘Somewhere a little more private.’

  ‘The library?’ Henri suggested, trying not to show unease.

  ‘No, let’s walk.’ He began to stride out of the courtyard and towards the terrace that led down to the rose gardens, wondering what would happen if he were to ask the Comte for his daughter’s hand in marriage. His mouth tightened. He knew what would happen. The sky would fall in. Henri would shoot not only him, but Lisette as well. Yet there had been a time when telling him had been a possibility. Before the airman had been captured. He cursed silently and then, as they began to walk down the moss-covered steps, he said, ‘As you know, most of the villagers along the coastline have been evacuated for security reasons. The remainder are also going to be asked to leave.’

  ‘And …’

  ‘And I am going to have to ask you and your wife and daughter to leave the area also.’

  ‘For security reasons?’ Henri asked tightly, trying not to betray his distress.

  ‘No.’ Dieter stopped and turned towards him. ‘If the Allies are going to invade, the invasion date cannot be far off. It will be safer for you and your family if you are not in Valmy when and if they land.’

  Henri’s fists clenched in the pockets of his cardigan. ‘Any danger we face does not come from the British,’ he said pointedly.

  ‘Nor from me!’ Dieter snapped. ‘I’m giving you orders to leave Valmy and I’m explaining to you my reasons for doing so. Good God, man, you can’t want your wife and daughter to be caught in the middle of a battlefield!’

  ‘No, and I don’t want them homeless and dispossessed as hundreds and thousands of other people are, all over Europe!’

  ‘Some of those dispossessed and homeless are German!’ Dieter flared. ‘British bombs have gutted Berlin!’

  ‘And German boots have marched all over my land. Don’t ask me for my sympathy, Major Meyer. You will not receive it.’

  Dieter’s rage was at himself, for having allowed himself to be goaded into an emotional betrayal of his feelings. His nostrils flared as he took a deep, steadying breath and then said with tight control, ‘I understand you have relatives in Paris?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then I suggest you go to them.’

  ‘Life is not easy in Paris, Major Meyer. There are shortages there. Life is better for my family here, at Valmy.’

  ‘Not if the battle for Europe takes place in and around Valmy,’ said Dieter harshly.

  ‘If that happens, then it will be you and your men who will be in danger, Major Meyer. Not my wife and child.’

  ‘Stop being so bloody obtuse,’ Dieter rasped. ‘There will be bombs and tanks and rocket fire. Civilian casualties will be as high as military casualties.’

  ‘I wasn’t aware that civilian casualties worried you, Major Meyer,’ Henri de Valmy said quietly.

  The reference to Gilles and Caldron was unmistakable. Dieter went chalk-white. ‘You will do as I say,’ he said tautly, not trusting himself to continue the conversation. ‘You will make arrangements to take your family out of Valmy and out of the area,’ and he spun on his heel, striding back over the gravel to the chateau and his car.

  Henri sat down shakily on a wooden garden seat. Dear Lord. Had he really spoken to a German officer in such an insulting way? He felt quite ill. Why on earth had Meyer stood for it? He hasn’t the kind of man to allow liberties to be taken. The more he thought of it, the more bizarre their angry exchange of words seemed. He could understand them being ordered away from their home for security reasons. Very few people living so near to the coastal defences had been allowed to remain. But to be moved for their own safety in case of an attack by the invasion forces? It was all most odd.

  He mopped his face with his handkerchief and rose unsteadily to his feet. Meyer, usually so disciplined and self-controlled, had seemed almost to be under stress. Could it be because he knew the invasion was imminent? He dismissed the idea almost as soon as he had thought of it. Meyer was not a man to panic at the thought of battle. He held the Knights Cross of the Iron Cross. His courage was proven.

  Then why? Was he really genuinely concerned about their safety? There had been a time when such a thought would have been quite feasible. Despite the circumstances under which Meyer had come to Valmy, Henri had instinctively liked him. The man was a Berliner, of course. Hard and smart, just like his city, but there had been integrity there as well. Or so he had thought. Then had come the shootings. Revulsion coursed through his veins. That action of Meyer’s had damned him. Whatever his reason for demanding that they leave Valmy, it couldn’t possibly be out of concern for their safety. His initial impressions of the man had been wrong. There was no integrity. No humanity.

  He began to walk wearily back towards the chateau. He needed to speak to Heloise. If the invasion forces were going to land on their beaches and not in the Pas de Calais, then they needed to make plans. He had already determined that no force on earth would persuade him to move his family to Paris, but it would make sense to move them a few miles inland until the Allies were established and the Germans were on the run. He refused to think of the alternative. Of the Allies pushed back into the sea and France chained to her occupiers without hope of release.

  From the window of her room Lisette saw her father walking back across the dew-wet terrace. He looked perturbed, his eyebrows pulled together, deep
lines creasing his forehead. She resisted the urge to hurry out to him and slip her arm through his. She had problems of her own that morning. Problems that she had to resolve before she spoke to anyone.

  She turned away from the window and closed her hands across her stomach. Common sense told her that she should be distraught. That of all the feelings she should be experiencing, joy was not one of them. But she couldn’t help it. She was having a baby. Dieter’s baby. She was carrying a tangible part of him in her body. No matter what happened, they would be bound together, through their child, for always. Her problem was not in the existence of the baby, but of whether or not she should tell Dieter of it. He was deeply worried, already, as to what would happen to her if Normandy was turned into a bloodbath. If he knew that she was pregnant, his worries would increase. Yet she wanted to tell him of it. The baby would be born out of their love for one another. It would grow up in a world where, God willing, there would be no fighting. They would not live in France or Germany. She knew now that no matter what happened, neither country could be their home. They would live in Switzerland. The Allied invasion would be successful. Germany would be defeated. Dieter would put away his uniform and never wear it again. They would be an ordinary, happy family, building a new life for themselves in the aftermath of the war. That was the future. But what of the present?

  Her parents would have to be told and she knew how the news would devastate them. They would not be able to understand, and they would not be able to forgive. The villagers would eventually know. She would be branded as a collaborator. Her child would be reviled and spat upon. Valmy would no longer be a home and a haven to her. She had sacrificed Valmy on the day that she had entered Dieter’s arms, and she did not regret it. She could not. She had committed herself to him for the rest of her life.

  The interview with Henri de Valmy had shaken Dieter considerably. He had been appalled to discover that the Comte’s opinion of him mattered. He wanted the man for a friend, not an enemy. He had stormed back to his car, barking commands to his men, sweeping off to inspect the flooded area around the Vire and cursing again the capture of the Allied airman that had made good relations with Henri de Valmy an impossibility.

  His bad temper persisted all day. He returned to the chateau to find a memo on his desk stating that OB West now firmly believed that the invasion would take place at the Pas de Calais on or around the fifteenth of May. A week away. He wondered what information the intelligence services had received to make them so sure of the place and the date. If it was accurate, Lisette would be far safer at Valmy than in Paris. He wrote his report of the day’s inspection trip in a firm, hard hand. The waiting was beginning to wear on his nerves. He only hoped it was wearing on the nerves of the Allies as well.

  He finished his report and poured himself a drink, wishing that the war was over. That he was in Berlin with Lisette. That he could take her out for a meal on the Kurfurstendamm. Take her to the theatre. To a nightclub. There were times when just thinking about her almost robbed him of breath. He had never thought it possible to love anyone so much. The dark, vibrant quality of her beauty devastated him. Everything about her was soft and feminine and elusive and he knew that he would never tire of her. She had seeped into his blood and into his bones and had become a part of him. He looked at his watch. It was ten to seven. There were nearly two hours to go before he met her in the lamplit solitude of the turret room. With difficulty he turned his mind back to his work and he report that was awaiting completion.

  ‘Meyer has demanded that we leave Valmy,’ Henri said to his wife and daughter that evening at dinner.

  Heloise de Valmy’s knife and fork clattered down on to her plate. ‘Leave? Why should we leave?’ she repeated, aghast. ‘Where would we go?’

  ‘Please don’t distress yourself, my dear. I hate no intention of complying with his demand. At least, not in the way that he envisages. However, I do think we should discuss where you and Lisette could retreat to if the invasion takes place here.’

  ‘You said it would take place in the Pas de Calais,’ his wife said, her cheeks bloodless, her eyes wide.

  ‘So it very well might. But we should be prepared for all contingencies. I’ve been giving it some thought, and I think the best plan would be for you and Lisette to join Marie’s family in Balleroy.’

  ‘Have you spoken to Marie about it?’

  ‘Yes. She says that we would be more than welcome.’

  ‘And when would we go?’

  ‘We would go if Meyer persists in ordering us to go. And we would go if the situation here becomes impossible for civilians.’

  ‘Otherwise we stay at Valmy?’

  Her husband’s eyes held hers steadily. ‘Yes, my dear. Otherwise we stay at Valmy.’

  Lisette felt limp with relief. Balleroy was only a little over sixty miles away. Even if she could not persuade Dieter to let her remain at Valmy she would only be a day’s journey away. And her parents would be safer there than on the coast if there was an attack.

  ‘Are you happy about going to Balleroy if it is necessary, Lisette?’ her father asked, his eyes concerned.

  ‘Yes Papa.’ She hesitated and then said, ‘Though there might not be an attack. They may not come. They may sue for peace without invading.’

  Her parents stared at her, stunned by the dreadfulness of such a prospect. ‘Oh no, Lisette,’ her mother said at last, recovering her power of speech. ‘They have to come. They must come.’

  ‘Who put such an idea into your head?’ her father asked. ‘Marie?’

  ‘No.’ She looked at then, loving them so much that her heart ached. ‘Major Meyer.’

  It had to be done. His name had to be mentioned. She couldn’t just tell them that she was carrying Dieter’s child without giving them some warning; some inkling that they were at least on friendly terms.

  There was a long silence and then her father said unsteadily, ‘Does Major Meyer make a habit of confiding in you, Lisette?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said, rising to her feet, her legs trembling. ‘I like him very much, Papa.’ She could say no more. Her mother’s lips were as bloodless as her face. Her father looked as if he had been physically struck.

  ‘But you can’t!’ Her mother’s voice was agonised. ‘Not after what he did. You can’t! It isn’t possible.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Mamam,’ she said quietly, ‘but I do,’ and she walked from the room, tears at the distress she was causing them burning the backs of her eyes.

  He was waiting for her when she entered the turret room. The sheets were turned down on the big brass bed, the lamps on the stone sills in the deeply embrasured windows glowing softly. He walked quickly across to her, folding his arms around her. ‘I thought you were never coming,’ he said, drinking in the sight and the sound and the scent of her.

  She laughed softly. ‘It’s only five past nine, my love.’

  ‘Those five minutes seemed like an age.’

  ‘They’re over now.’ His lips were hard and sweet against hers. She could feel his heart beating, feel the tension and strain leave his body as he pressed her close against him. It was like coming home. It was all she would ever want or ever need.

  As he raised his head from hers he said suddenly, ‘You’ve been crying.’

  Her fingers interlocked tightly with his. ‘No, I haven’t,’ she lied gently, not wanting to burden him with the grief she felt at her parents’distress. ‘I have a cold coming, I think.’

  ‘Then you need a hot drink with honey and lemon.’

  ‘Maybe,’ she said smiling, ‘but I don’t want you deserting me to rummage around in Marie’s kitchen making me one.’

  ‘Then have a brandy,’ he said, crossing to the antique cabinet that had been discreetly converted to hold drinks.

  She curled up on the bed while he poured a French brandy and a calvados. The room had become their world. It was high in the turret, far away from the main body of the chateau. Her grandmother had made the room her retreat, usin
g it as both a bedroom and a sitting room, and since her death it had not been used. Everything was pearl grey. The silk on the walls, the thick carpets, the heavy velvet drapes at the windows. Dieter’s books were scattered on the bedside table and there was a small, silver-framed photograph of his mother on the dresser. She looked at it reflectively. It showed a laughing woman, with soft blonde hair framing her face, kneeling on the grass with a trug of flowers by her side. No doubt she would be appalled when she knew that her son was to marry a French girl. A French girl who was already carrying his child.

  ‘You’re looking very serious, liebling,’ he said, handing her the brandy.

  ‘I was thinking about your mother,’ she said, as he settled himself down next to her, pulling her close. ‘About how unhappy she will be when she finds out that she is to have a French daughter-in-law.’

  His mouth crooked in one of his rare smiles. ‘My mother has a great capacity for adjusting to surprises. And she trusts my judgement. She won’t be unhappy, liebling. Not once she has met you. How could she be?’

  A chess board and chessmen lay at the side of the bed and she leaned across, drawing it towards them, not wanting him to see the doubt in her eyes. ‘Your queen is still in danger,’ she said teasingly. ‘Have you any plans for rescuing her?’

  Her hair had fallen forward over her shoulders and he lifted it back, away from her face, loving the heavy, silky feel of it in his hands.

  ‘Yes,’ he growled softly, moving a knight to protect his queen. ‘But let the chess wait,’ and he slid her down beside him, his body already hard, his fingers at the buttons of her blouse.

  She stretched herself out beneath him as he kissed her throat, her bared breasts. She would tell him tonight. In a little while. After they had made love.

  Chapter Eight

  She lay with her head in the crook of his shoulder, her fingers tracing a line down his chest, through the matt of crisply curling blond hair to the taut, hard muscles of his belly and the darker, stronger curls beyond.