Scent of Triumph

by Jan Moran

  “I see.” Were they being watched even now? “But wait, how is our home? Can I go back there?”

  “No. A Nazi officer has taken ownership of the estate.”

  Danielle recoiled as if she’d been socked in the gut. Gone. Just like that. The estate that had been in Sofia’s family for generations, that Max had struggled to maintain, that she and Sofia had worked so hard to make comfortable. Their personal belongings, furniture, artwork, mementos. Their entire family history. Gone. She realized Max had probably discovered the same, and imagined how he must have felt. She cleared her throat. “Oscar, what about the factory? Our employees?”

  Sadness washed across his face. “Nazis took over the factory, too. Making glass for the war effort, windshields, I’ve heard. As for the employees, those who agree to work there are given their life, those who don’t, lose it. They’re prisoners.”

  Nausea overwhelmed her. Nothing could have prepared her for this. She steadied herself on the fender of the car.

  Oscar glanced around. “We’d better go. Remember, don’t talk in the car. The car will be checked tonight for listening devices. Tomorrow we talk more.”

  Devices. Her hand flew to her mouth. “I forgot, I have something for you. I’m to give you my cosmetics case.”

  “Leave it in the car when I drop you off.” He smiled at her. “We’ve been expecting it.”

  They returned to the car and wound their way through the rubble to the hotel. Oscar led her inside.

  Danielle took in the sight, crestfallen. Sparse would have been a kind description. The innkeeper told her that during the invasion, the lobby had been looted and one wing had been damaged. “And no hot water.”

  Danielle suspected the innkeeper secretly enjoyed making life difficult for the Germans, which, no doubt, he thought she was.

  That night, she slept fitfully, but she was ready the next morning when Oscar arrived at seven o’clock.

  What Danielle saw on their travels made her heart ache for the Polish people. Devastation and death, scarcity of food and medical assistance, and everywhere, the threat of violence. Gone were the pretty villages that lined the country roads. In their place stood piles of rubble, rats scampering among the remains.

  Wherever Danielle and Oscar went, they heard Nazi soldiers belittling the new British Prime Minister, Winston Churchill. “We shall never surrender,” Churchill had said. Danielle cleaved to his words with renewed vigor.

  They spent the day moving around according to a strict plan, but their search was fruitless. No one had seen Nicky or Sofia, no one had heard anything. At the end of the day, Danielle’s heart was heavy with disappointment.

  * * *

  A week passed, and then another. As the days wore on, Danielle continued to cling to hope that she would find Nicky.

  But Frau Werner’s husband was scheduled to arrive soon.

  Danielle should have already returned to Paris. In her search, she had exhausted all leads, all possibilities, save one.

  Heinrich.

  That afternoon, she wept when she heard on the car radio that 340,000 French and English forces had been evacuated by the Royal Navy and other boats from the beaches of Dunkirk in northern France to escape the advancing Nazi line. With dismay, she thought of Jon. Perhaps he is there, too. And then she thought of her family in Paris, of the Nazis soon crossing northern France, and she grew frantic. I must find Nicky and return to Paris.

  Oscar stopped the car for petrol, and the attendant motioned for him to fill the tank himself. Danielle got out with him. “I must see Heinrich,” she whispered.

  Oscar’s face went white. “Are you crazy? You want to waltz into the arms of the enemy?”

  “Oscar, you know I have precious little time left.”

  He jammed the nozzle into the tank opening. “But he might not know anything.”

  “And he might. How can I leave knowing he might have information?” Danielle paced the length of the car, agitated.

  “Stop that,” Oscar whispered. “You’re drawing attention.”

  Danielle stopped, hands on her hips. “I must find my son. Take me to that café you mentioned, where the Nazis dine.”

  Oscar shook his head. “I can’t let you do this.”

  Danielle put her hands on his shoulder. She had to make him see her point. “Oscar, if it were your child, or Jacob’s child, wouldn’t you go?

  “But you’re a woman, it’s not safe. And how would you get in to see him?”

  Danielle ignored his comment about being a woman. “I have a plan.”

  * * *

  While Oscar waited by the car, Danielle went into the decrepit café where she’d heard Nazi soldiers often dined. The air was laden with the scent of beef and grease. She was directed to the kitchen to speak to the owner, an elderly Polish woman. Danielle cast aside her Frau Werner disguise. Speaking in Polish, she asked if the woman had heard of Sofia von Hoffman.

  “Von Hoffman?” The old woman stood kneading dough at a wooden table. “Sofia, no. Heinrich, yes. A young SS officer. He comes here for dinner. I remember because Heinrich was my father’s name.”

  A surge of hope mingled with disgust coursed through Danielle. She folded her arms around her middle, hugging her grey jacket. “Do you know where I might find him?”

  “He’s not far from here. Oh yes, I remember Heinrich von Hoffman very well. I never forget a face.” The woman tapped her head, leaving a white splotch of flour on her forehead. “I still have a great mind.” She wiped her hands on her apron.

  When Danielle returned to the car, Oscar asked, “What took you so long?”

  She explained her plan.

  “Absolutely not,” Oscar sputtered.

  “But he’s Max’s cousin, and I’m family, too.” Danielle was glad she hadn’t told Oscar that Heinrich had betrayed Max. “After all, Sofia was like a mother to him.”

  Oscar shook his head adamantly. “Maybe she was, but from what I saw, the lure of the military was much greater than his love for his family. Danielle, this is too risky.”

  She whirled around, felt her heart beating wildly. “I must take the chance.”

  13

  Jean-Claude eased himself under LeBlanc’s pristine Bentley automobile. With the stealth of a cat, he removed the package he had concealed in his shirt. Gritting his teeth, he steadied his hands and began to work, attaching the explosive device to the underside of the Bentley. He wiped perspiration from his brow and blinked.

  He checked his wristwatch and confirmed he was right on schedule. He slid out from under the car and wiped his greasy hands on his dark uniform.

  He tugged his cap low over his forehead, searching the parking area as he did. Good, he thought with relief. No sign of his father’s car. His mother, Hélène, and Liliana planned to take his father out for a birthday luncheon. They should be at the restaurant by now. His father always ate at noon. He didn’t want them anywhere near the bank now.

  His job complete, Jean-Claude stood up and waved at the attendant. Head down, he hurried away.

  Jean-Claude had hidden in the lot early that morning waiting for LeBlanc to arrive. A strikingly pretty woman, Françoise had distracted the attendant with a few minutes of flirting, while Jean-Claude punctured a tire on LeBlanc’s car. Later, Françoise had pointed out the flat tire to the attendant, an ambitious young man eager to gain favor with the bank partners. He called LeBlanc’s secretary immediately. Afterward, Françoise slipped away and called the garage to cancel the secretary’s call. Finally, she confirmed LeBlanc’s one o’clock luncheon at the club.

  As far as Jean-Claude could tell, the plan had been perfectly executed. They had aroused no curiosity. He quickened his pace, heading to the café to meet Françoise.

  * * *

  Marie sat in front of the vanity mirror in her hotel suite and brushed her platinum blond hair from her forehead, then secured it in a chignon style with two antique combs. At her ears she fastened a pair of discreet pearl earrings that her husband ha
d surprised her with on their last anniversary.

  As she stood and slipped on her white linen jacket, she thought of her baby granddaughter. Jasmin was with a trusted baby sitter in the hotel, but Marie didn’t want to leave her alone too long. She arranged a stylish pastel print scarf around her neck and as she finished the knot, the phone rang, interrupting her thoughts.

  “Hello? Oh, good morning, Hélène.” She listened for a moment. “Don’t worry, Edouard will understand, though he will miss his granddaughter. And I’m sure the restaurant won’t mind if we’re a little late. Forty minutes? Don’t rush, dear, how about an hour? Good. I’ll phone them now. Good-bye.”

  She rang the restaurant first, then dialed Edouard’s office number. “Liliana has a fever,” she explained to his secretary. “One of Hélène’s neighbors has agreed to sit with the child, but Hélène is running late. Tell Edouard we’ll have lunch at one o’clock instead of noon.”

  She had extra time now, so Marie decided to walk to the bank to meet Edouard. He had taken the car that morning, as he usually did. Marie preferred to walk anyway, enjoying the exercise. The day was beautiful, clear and bright, and a welcome change from the drizzle that had plagued Paris for the past week.

  As she walked, she thought about Edouard’s recent decision. “Danielle’s situation clarifies the issues,” he had told them at dinner the night before. Even Jean-Claude had acquiesced and attended on Marie’s urging, in an attempt at a truce.

  “I’ve decided to retire,” Edouard had announced. But the bank didn’t have a provision for retirement. The partnership agreement he had signed years ago restricted partners who left early. Their only savings lay in the equity of their home, and they had borrowed against it for the renovation.

  Marie sighed as she thought about her son’s reaction at dinner. Jean-Claude had exploded, calling Edouard’s actions cowardly. Whatever his father did, it was never enough. Jean-Claude couldn’t understand the courage it had taken his father to make his decision, to walk away from a lifetime of labor.

  Marie couldn’t wait to tell Danielle about their plans. Though it would be difficult financially to start over at their age, Marie was glad that Edouard had finally resolved their fate.

  Marie nodded and spoke to acquaintances she passed on the boulevard. Her thoughts returned to Danielle, and she said a little prayer that her daughter would return safely with Nicky and Sofia. “Of course she will,” she said to herself. On such a glorious day, anything seemed possible.

  Soon she arrived at the bank. “Bonjour,” she called to the clerks in the spacious marbled lobby.

  “Bonjour, madame,” the receptionist replied. “Your husband is waiting for you. Go right up.”

  Marie started up the carpeted staircase and paused when she reached the top. “Happy birthday, my dear.”

  Edouard stood with his broad back to her. He turned and his ruddy face lit. “Marie, my dearest, you make it happy for me.” He kissed her lightly on both cheeks. “You look beautiful today. White always suits you well.”

  Marie blushed, feeling as she had thirty years ago when they’d first met. “Has Hélène arrived yet?”

  “Not yet.” He shrugged. “But nothing is going according to schedule today. I had problems with our car this morning. It overheated on the way in, so I left it at the garage. We can take a taxi to lunch. And our Swiss board member, Herr Steiger—you remember him—hasn’t arrived yet either.” He held his hands out and shrugged again. “But today is my birthday, and I’m going to spend the rest of the afternoon with my beautiful ladies.”

  “Herr Steiger?” Marie frowned. “Won’t you need to meet with him this afternoon?”

  He shook his head. “No, the other partners will do fine without me.”

  Louis LeBlanc, a tall, well-dressed man, appeared in the hallway. “Very nice to see you again, Marie. I understand you’re taking Edouard to lunch today.”

  Marie greeted her husband’s old friend and business partner with warmth. “Are you certain you don’t need my husband today?”

  “No, but we shall miss him in the future.”

  “Thank you,” she murmured. Marie knew that there had been contention among them about his resignation. She turned to Edouard. “Hélène should be here soon. We could meet her downstairs and arrange a taxi.”

  “Nonsense,” declared LeBlanc. “I’m going to the club, too. You can come with me. Seems Herr Steiger had an emergency, so we’ll meet over dinner instead. I had a flat tire this morning, but the attendant tells me the man from the garage is changing the tire now. Should be ready by the time Hélène arrives.”

  “Quite a day for car trouble.” Marie lifted a brow. “Are you sure it’s no imposition?”

  “Not at all.” LeBlanc waved his hand. “Besides, I think you’ll find my new Bentley much more comfortable than a taxi.”

  Edouard tipped his head in appreciation. “And here’s Hélène now.”

  Hélène rushed over and kissed Marie and Edouard in greeting. “Sorry I’m so late.”

  “Relax,” Marie said. “These things happen with children—and cars. Everything is fine now. Monsieur LeBlanc has offered to take us to the restaurant in his new motor car. Isn’t that lovely?”

  * * *

  Françoise sat at a rear table in a dark café nursing a cup of coffee, a cigarette dangling between her fingers. She raised her eyes as Jean-Claude approached.

  “How’d everything go?” she asked.

  “Smooth as silk. Now we wait.”

  “Cigarette?”

  “Yeah.” Jean-Claude took a cigarette, struck a match to it, and inhaled deeply to calm his jittery nerves. He was grateful for something to do with his hands. Françoise seemed edgy, too. He could see her quick, shallow breathing beneath her dress.

  He motioned to the waiter for coffee, then ran his hands through his hair, envisioning the soon-to-be-enacted scene in his mind’s eye. The trap was set. Soon they would be one step closer to securing freedom for the oppressed, to halting Hitler in his tracks. He imagined a similar, simultaneous scene being played out by their colleagues in Vienna and Berlin.

  A waiter poured coffee into a cup and pushed it to Jean-Claude. He stared into the black coffee and tried not to think of LeBlanc’s family, thrusting aside his memories. Millions of other people were suffering under the Nazis. Sweat beaded on his forehead and trickled down his chest.

  Françoise wiped perspiration from her upper lip and took another drag from her cigarette.

  Still they waited.

  Jean-Claude drank his coffee. He pictured Louis LeBlanc, and thought about his father’s inevitable grief for his friend and partner. But imagine, he told himself, just imagine the suffering that LeBlanc and Steiger have inflicted upon millions of innocents by their actions. And inadvertently, his own father. At least his father had tendered his resignation.

  Jean-Claude thought of all his father was giving up—his career, his income, and probably, his home. He shook his head. Perhaps I was too hard on him. He gulped his coffee. He resolved to speak to his father soon, to apologize for his harsh judgment.

  The minutes crawled and the ticking of their watches was deafening. Smoke curled around their table. Jean-Claude bowed his head, studying his grimy hands. Healing hands, hands that kill. A surgeon’s hands, steady and sure, so well suited for planting bombs. His father had accused him of acts of terror. He shuddered. Had he become what he despised? After this, could he ever find peace in his soul again?

  Françoise reached across the table and grasped his hand. “Justice comes to us all,” she whispered.

  “Justice—” he began.

  Suddenly a jolt shook them, as sharp as an earthquake. The windows rattled as the sound of an explosion ripped through the air. The coffee in his cup vibrated from the impact, and he and Françoise stared at one another.

  “God forgive us,” he whispered, clutching the table.

  14

  A faint rosy dawn crept into the room, illuminating the tatter
ed photograph on the nightstand of Nicky and Sofia, the photograph that Danielle carried on her daily sojourns.

  Danielle turned onto her side and reached out, tracing Nicky’s outline. In the photo, he was smiling and hugging a stuffed, red-striped monkey she had made for him such a long time ago. She lay quietly in bed, her failure to locate her family weighing heavily on her heart.

  Her visit was drawing to its inevitable close. Sofia and Nicky seemed to have vanished. Had Max found them? She racked her mind. Only one avenue remained.

  “Heinrich,” she whispered. The traitor in her family. She had an uneasy feeling that he held the key.

  But would he help her or turn her in to his superiors? Would Sofia and Nicky suffer because of her inquiries? She stared out the window, focusing on the steady, distant horizon to calm her stormy nerves.

  As the sun rose over the faraway hilltops, bathing the village in a golden glow, she slipped out of bed and dressed hurriedly. Outside, she could hear the clip-clop of horse’s hooves on the cobblestone path. The faint aroma of coffee spiraled up the staircase and under the door. The day had begun.

  * * *

  “I can’t allow it,” Oscar said, his face reddening, his hands shoved in his trouser pockets. They stood next to the car, parked beside a wheat field. Danielle glanced about for signs that they might be watched. They had been arguing for almost an hour.

  Danielle outlined her strategy. “It’s my last chance.” She glared at Oscar with determination. This is what I must do, she thought.

  “And what do I do if you meet with Heinrich, and don’t return?”

  “Send a message to Jean-Claude.”

  Oscar’s shoulders slumped and his gaunt face showed signs of fatigue. “So far, I have failed you. But Sofia saved my life and I am indebted to your family.” He frowned and wagged his head. “Still, I don’t know.”

  “I won’t implicate you, should it come to that.” Danielle stood her ground, arms folded, and waited for his response.