by A W Hartoin
“What murder?” asked Chuck.
“A young Jew named Grynszpan murdered a German diplomat, Vom Rath, right here in Paris,” said Marie. “Perhaps there is a connection, but that doesn’t explain why the Bleds would preserve it like this. It must be something to do with Stella.”
I agreed, but I asked, “Why do you say that?”
“She was in Europe on her honeymoon at the time,” she said.
“We have evidence that she was here in Paris in November of ’38,” said Chuck.
Marie grinned at us. “The plot thickens.”
“You didn’t know she was here at that time?”
“Stella was very good at keeping secrets, too.” She tapped her chin. “The best at secrets, I would have to say, which was why she was so valuable to the Allies.”
I got my phone out and showed her the pictures of Stella and Nicky with Amelie and Paul.
“Ah yes,” she said. “The couple from New Orleans.”
A thrill went through me and Marie told us about a time during the war when she and her first husband, Theo Lawrence, met with Stella and a British operative. Stella had orders to go into Germany. It was extremely dangerous and her survival wasn’t certain. Marie and Theo were returning to England for some training and Stella made them promise to contact her family and Nicky’s family about a couple in New Orleans, Amelie and Paul. She said that they had done her and Nicky a great service, regardless of their own safety. Amelie and Paul should be looked after and helped, if it were ever needed. Stella had written to Florence, The Girls’ mother, but she didn’t know if Florence got the letter. Mail wasn’t a sure thing during the war.
“What was the great kindness?”
“She was evasive on that point and we had bigger things to worry about.” She gazed off into the distance. “I imagine it had something to do with Abel.”
Chuck grabbed my thigh and squeezed. It was such an intimate gesture that I sucked in a sharp breath and held it. Marie noticed. Chuck didn’t.
“Who’s Abel?” he asked.
Marie looked away from us. “I never met him. I saw him once at a distance, but don’t ask me about that. I won’t talk about that.”
“Alright then,” I said. “What was his last name? Could it have been Sorkine?”
“No, I don’t think so. I knew his name. Stella told me I’m sure, but I can’t remember it at the moment.”
“They were friends?”
Her eyes switched back to me. I expected them to be teary, but I should’ve known better. Marie was the least teary person I ever met. “Yes, but it was more than that.”
“Oh,” said Chuck in a knowing voice.
Marie shook her head. “Do not be ridiculous. It wasn’t an affair. But it was a bond between the three of them, Stella, Nicky, and Abel.”
Marie didn’t remember a lot about Abel, having seen him only the once. Abel served as the couple’s tour guide on their honeymoon trip through Europe. A grand tour, she called it. He was tall, handsome, and a Jew. My heart sank when I heard that. Being a Jew in Europe in 1938 wasn’t an easy thing to survive.
“She was looking for him,” said Marie. “That’s how we first met. She was in London with Nicky, banging on doors, trying to get information. There was an ambassador who helped her. I think Abel had been arrested.”
“In London?” asked Chuck.
“He should’ve been so lucky. Abel was arrested on the continent by the Nazis.”
“In 1938?” I asked.
She tapped the screen of the phone again. “I don’t remember, but I met her in 1940, so before that.”
Chuck went over to her again and pulled up the photo of the telegram he found. She raised the phone and squinted at it. “A could be Abel, but there are a lot of As in the world.”
“Did Stella and Nicky go to Italy on their grand tour?” I asked.
Marie gave Chuck back his phone. “It’s not a grand tour unless you go everywhere. Italy was high on the list and they did go. Stella was very knowledgeable about the country. They were there before…”
“Before what?”
“I don’t know. She always said before, but we all did with the war on. Before, I was a debutante. Before, I was a bricklayer. Things like that. At the time, I assumed she meant the war, but now I think it was something more. Stella said to me once about Italy, ‘If only I had understood. We would’ve stayed and the whole business wouldn’t have happened.’ I asked her what business and she brushed me off. Typical of Stella.”
“Do you know if they went to Italy before Paris? My great great-grandparents met her and Nicky in Paris.”
“I believe their anniversary was in September so this would’ve been at the end of their honeymoon time wise.” Her eyes bored into mine. “And Abel isn’t in the picture.”
“Would he have been?” asked Chuck. “He was kind of a servant, wasn’t he?”
“You know the Bleds,” she said. “What do you think?”
“He’d have been in the picture if he was there,” I said without any doubt. I did know the Bleds, but I was beginning to realize that I had a lot to learn.
“Let me see that picture again.” Marie studied the picture, zooming in on bits of it to get a better look. “Those clothes are off the rack. Stella hasn’t got any jewelry on. Where are her engagement and wedding rings? She married a Lawrence. She would’ve had a pricey set.”
I shrugged and said, “I thought that was odd, too.”
Marie tapped her chin. “It’s odd, alright. What could make a bride give up her rings? Stella adored Nicky. She treasured everything the man ever gave her.”
“So if we assume ‘A’ is Abel, something big happened between Italy and Paris.”
None of us had any clue what that event could’ve been, other than possibly Abel’s arrest, but that didn’t explain Stella and Nicky’s condition. We asked Marie if she knew anything about Jens Waldemar Hoff, The Klinefeld Group or Werner Richter. She didn’t.
Marie stood up, flung her cape over her shoulder, and marched to the door. “I have to go or I’ll be late. Any more questions?”
“Are there any names you remember that might help?” asked Chuck.
“Classified. I can’t talk about operations or information gleaned from operations.”
I smiled at her. “I can’t believe you followed the rules then or now.”
“Look at you, trying to schmooze information out of me.” She winked at me.
“Sorry,” I said, trying to look abashed, which was difficult, because I wasn’t, not one bit.
“Don’t be sorry. It worked,” said Marie before exchanging cheek kisses with us. “I’ll give you one name, because I didn’t get it through an operation.”
“Really? Thank you so much,” I said.
“Don’t thank me yet. This was just a rumor going through the ranks. Stella had an enemy in the SS, a man named Peiper, or so they said. He had it in for her. It might be a load of codswallop, though.”
Chuck and I walked her to the door. He opened it and said, “I’ll walk you down.”
“Don’t bother. You’ve got other fish to fry and she’s a pretty fish, too.”
Chuck looked away, not at me, not at anyone, and Marie reached up and patted his cheek. “You’ve been to the wars, haven’t you?”
“I’m a cop, not military.”
“There are all sorts of wars,” she said.
Chuck blushed and then tried to step away, but Marie held him by the arm. “Time won’t heal your wounds, but they will fade.”
Chuck didn’t speak, but shook his head.
“Trust me,” said Marie. “I know.”
“Has Ravensbrück faded for you?”
She laughed and patted his cheek. “Let’s say I have beat those memories into submission. They don’t rule me. I rule them. You can do the same.”
“If you say so.”
“I do and I’m right. Must go or I’ll be late.” She checked her watch. “I have to pick up some things fir
st.”
“Late for what?” I asked.
“Sarah’s granddaughter’s family’s flying in. I have to pick them up.”
“In that limo?” asked Chuck. “Where’s your driver?”
“I don’t need a driver. How old do you think I am?”
“Seventy-two,” said Chuck with conviction. Marie and I exchanged cheek kisses again. “He’s a smart one. They’re always the most trouble, but well worth it. You two go out tonight. Enjoy the music. It only happens once a year.”
“What happens?”
“Fête de la Musique. Vive la France.” Marie swept out the door, calling out, “Monsieur Barre, I know you’re here. You can’t hide from me, you old rascal.”
I closed the door, laughing. “That’s why it’s so crowded. I totally forgot about the Fête de la Musique.”
“Poor Monsieur Barre,” said Chuck.
“He probably is lurking out there, waiting for her to leave. She does tend to wreak havoc wherever she goes.”
“Like somebody else I know.”
“Who?” I asked.
“You.”
“I hardly think so. Other people wreak havoc. I just get in the way.”
“You’ve got to stop that.”
My hand went to my hip. “Don’t start with that again.”
“I’m not starting anything. You should go to bed and rest.”
“You’re the one with the head injury,” I said.
“Bullet wounds trump head injuries.”
“Since when?”
“Since forever,” said Chuck. “Go to bed.”
I sneered at him. I wasn’t about to take orders from him or anybody. “Go jump off a bridge.” It just slipped out. For a second, I thought he might laugh. I was ready to laugh, ready to leave it behind us and find a way into the future. Chuck didn’t laugh. He had no expression at all. He turned on his heels and went to the spare bedroom. Marie said he’d been to the wars. If only I knew what war we were dealing with.
Chapter Thirty
Chuck didn’t come out of the bedroom until Aaron came back from the cooking school. The little weirdo looked like he’d been in a flour fight and we dusted him off as best we could. He couldn’t see the point in changing clothes before going out to enjoy the music festival. Aaron didn’t think crusted on pastry cream was an issue. I hoped nobody would notice and question what exactly that substance was.
Since nobody cared but me, we headed out into the crowded streets. I’d been in Paris for the festival when I was six, but I didn’t remember much about it. Aaron, of course, knew exactly what we were going to do, but he didn’t share the plan. He just headed off, leading us to the Louvre for a drumline, then to the Orsay for a huge brass band. They looked like they were going to play heavy metal with all the black and tattoos, but they played Gershwin. It was kinda surreal.
We followed Aaron around the city without question and without speaking to each other. Something had to break the stalemate. I wanted to say that it would be okay, but how could I say something so lame, especially when I didn’t know a thing about what Chuck was dealing with?
After taking umpteen trains and walking miles, we ended up close to the Rue Montorgueil apartment. With all the excitement, I’d forgotten our stuff was still there. With Angela revealed to the world and, according to Dad, Marius Bombelli on the run, we could go back and enjoy showers for the last few days in Paris. Dad thought Marius would be caught within days. The Gravano family had cut ties with him and had been uncharacteristically open about it, tweeting leads to the FBI and posting mugshots on their Facebook page. The media had reported the boat incident as a terrorist act and they named Marius as the instigator. The French and U.S. Government denied that it had anything to do with terrorism, but the media had their own ideas. Apparently, the Gravano family didn’t want a thing to do with a suspected terrorist and Dad thought Marius’s life expectancy was dropping by the minute. And without Marius paying Poinaré and his ilk, no hitmen would have any interest in Angela or me. I’d told Dad the cover story and he appeared to buy it. I left out the body in the sewer. It hadn’t been on the news and I found myself wondering if a body could disintegrate in that muck. That would be nice and no more than what he deserved.
“You hungry?” yelled Aaron. We were in-between not only two DJs, but also a live band rocking out everything from Motörhead to Taylor Swift. It made for some weird transitions, but the guys had range.
“Starving!” I looked at Chuck, who was gazing into the distance at nothing in particular. “You?” I yelled.
“Sure!”
That was it. One word. This wasn’t a good sign. I thought about calling Mom for advice. She’d been dealing with cop stuff for a quarter-century and would have more of a clue than me, but I was afraid she’d yell. She’d been yelling in the background when I was talking to Dad. For once, he was the calm one, probably because this whole boat thing was good for business, and hence, the family. Mom didn’t care and let me know it.
Aaron pointed at a restaurant called Blend and I nodded. I would’ve agreed to anything, including crab, to get out of the music for a minute. The sliding glass door opened for us and I rushed inside into the cool modern interior. The door closed behind Chuck, cutting the sound to a dull roar.
“Aaron!” exclaimed a bearded man in a chef’s coat.
“Is there anyone in food that you don’t know?” I asked.
Aaron didn’t have a chance to shrug before the chef rushed up to hug him and exchange cheek kisses. I gathered through the rapid-fire French that they knew each other from the old days. We sat down at a table and were enthusiastically told all about the bread they baked in house, the ketchup they blended, and meat they ground fresh daily. I struggled not to drool on the table and when Chef Andre was done describing the special meats he had in mind for us, I ordered an Agent Provocateur beer, even though it was an IPA. The name sold it and I needed some lubrication to deal with the booming music that flooded the restaurant every time the doors slid open, not to mention the glowering Chuck sitting across from me.
As if on cue, he said, “Let’s see if we can sit outside. There are open tables.”
“Are you kidding?” I asked. “We can’t hear ourselves think out there.”
Chuck took a drink of beer. I guess thinking or hearing wasn’t high on his list.
“Fine. You want to go out? Let’s go out.” I took a big gulp of beer. It was hard to swallow, all of it.
“You’re not going out there,” said Chuck.
“I’ll go out if that’s what you want.”
“No, you won’t. It’s too loud.”
“I’ll do it.”
“You won’t.”
Aaron got up and trotted back into the kitchen.
“See that?” I asked. “You scared Aaron.”
“Aaron’s not scared. He knows you’re not going out there.”
I finished the beer and slammed it on the table. “You’re getting us confused. I’ll do what you want. You won’t do what I want.”
He drained his bottle and said, “I asked you to sing at the Cops for Kids benefit and you won’t do that.”
“That’s different,” I said.
“Oh yeah? How?”
“That’s singing as opposed to sitting. It’s different.”
“Yeah, one’s for the Children’s Hospital and one’s for me.”
What’s happening?
“You really want me to sing that bad?”
His icy blue eyes bored into me. “Yes.”
He’s trying to get me to break up with him. Nope. Not gonna do it.
“And if I sing, that’ll change everything?” I asked.
“We’ll never know,” he said.
I stood up, snatched my second beer off the waiter’s tray, and threw it back. “Yes, we will. We’re gonna know right now! Aaron!”
Aaron peeked around the corner from the back. “Huh?”
“Where’s that chef guy?”
The c
hef came out. “Oui?”
“What are you doing?” asked Chuck.
I stuck my finger in his face. “You want singing? You’re gonna get singing.”
“From the chef?”
“Quiet!”
I marched into the back, dragging Aaron and the chef with me. Like Aaron, Chef Andre knew everybody, including the band across the street. He introduced me and convinced them that I could sing. No, that’s not the truth. They didn’t buy it. They gave me a tambourine and said I could stand on the side. Then Aaron intervened and showed them a news report with the video of me jumping off the bridge. That video was magic. They would’ve let me sing if I sounded like Daffy Duck.
The lead guitarist asked what I wanted to sing as Chuck came out of the front door of Blend. The crowd was jeering and complaining about the lack of music as if the DJs on the other two corners weren’t enough. My stomach twisted into knots, but I was committed. I would do it. I’d sing, even if my hero status got downgraded to idiot. I would do it and everything would change. I was just stupid enough to believe it.
I got up on stage and sang. I sang like I never sang before. I sang as myself, not as Marilyn Monroe. It was me, not a character. “When you can't find the light, that guides you on the cloudy days.”
There were about 300 phones filming me, but I sang to Chuck. He gripped the back of a chair, expressionless.
I came to the end and gave it my all. “Till the break of day.”
Chuck let go of the chair and pushed his way through the hysterical crowd. I was a hit.
He stood in front of me and said, “You sang Soulshine.”
“I did. You want me to sing something by Van Halen?” That band was Dad’s favorite, but definitely not mine.
“You’d do it, wouldn’t you?” he asked.
“Damn straight. What’ll it be? “Jump”? Or,” God help me. “Hot for Teacher.”
Chuck grabbed me, kissing me so hard and so well, I stopped breathing and I didn’t mind. The crowd went batshit crazy and we took a bow.
“You made me forget,” said Chuck in my ear.
“Good,” I said. “So “Jump”?”
“Step back, woman,” he shouted. “It’s my turn!”
