by Lynn Sheene
Claire tried to swallow but her mouth was too dry. She’d hoped Grey would bring the package. His eyes would be serious today, the color of stormy skies. Walking close but not touching, his voice low, words precise, he would have described the gardens, naming each plant, dating each structure. How he knew these things, she didn’t understand, but she would have loved to be unafraid, if just for a moment.
Claire slipped on the armband. Within a hundred feet of turning off rue du Faubourg Saint-Honoré onto rue de Saussaies, she passed three restaurants, a bar, a jewelry store and two fine hotels. A much smaller street than Champs-Elysées, she decided, but an expensive neighborhood, nonetheless.
The building at 11, rue de Saussaies was as beautiful as any other around it. Six stories, grey stone-carved balustrades on wrought-iron balconies. But thick iron bars covered street-level windows and heavy metal doors towered over the SS guards standing at attention.
The man in front of her was searched before he entered. Claire produced her papers for the soldiers, was scrutinized thoroughly and waved inside. As the doors banged shut behind her, the emotion drained from her body.
The lobby was large, with raised ceilings and long stone walls. In the far corner, three Nazi officers worked behind a broad wooden desk. A short line had already started to form in front. Details clicked through her mind like photographs as she walked over to join the end of the line. The floors were white marble. Marks on the bare walls showed where art had once been.
The man in line in front of her wrung his hat in his hands, shuffling his weight from one foot to the other. His blue worker’s uniform reeked of an acrid oily smoke that made her eyes water. A factory worker, then. An informant, perhaps: Francois is the one who pissed on your wires and shorted them. He wouldn’t be the first to turn another in for a crumb. Nor the last. You will find the Nazis very ungrateful, she silently told him, and hoped he would get a taste of a dark cell in back.
The soldiers behind the desk snapped to attention when an officer entered the lobby behind her. Tall and slim, his lapel and shoulder patches marked him as the equivalent of a major. The red swastika armband was a splash of blood against his feldgrau jacket. A patch low on his sleeve read SD. His peaked hat was pulled low over his face, but there was something familiar in the set of his mouth.
She turned her head away from him and kept her eyes on the floor as he strode past and disappeared behind a column. After counting to ten, Claire risked a glance behind her.
There it was at the far end of the lobby. As Odette had said, a stone carving covered a wall to the left of a long corridor. The sculpture was nearly covered by a large swastika flag suspended between columns on each side. Less than five feet from the carving, the hallway was guarded by four soldiers, hands on holstered pistols.
“Madame.” The voice was sharp, irritated.
Claire stepped up to the counter, a deferential nod to the man waiting behind. She got a good look at him and suppressed a wince. His head came out of his stiff uniform collar like a mushroom. His heavy lips were pinched and his glasses magnified mean little eyes. He radiated hatred.
She formed a smile and slid the package onto the desk. “Claire Badeau. I have a package for one of your, eh, guests, Mathew Nash,” she said slowly, in bad French with an American accent that would make Madame Palain shudder.
“What is it?”
“Bread, tobacco, a couple of shirts.” She leaned forward, a certain amount of concern for the innocent American showing in her tone, the tremble of her lip. “I would hope Monsieur Nash could remain comfortable until this can be worked out.”
An open sneer. “Your identification.”
Claire slid her papers across the counter and said a silent apology to Foyer du Soldat.
With two fingers he flicked her identification from her hands. “Address?”
Claire recited the address listed on her identification card. He wrote on a form and barked something in German. The soldier next to him took the package and her papers, disappearing between the guards down the hall.
“Sit until you are called.” The angry mushroom motioned the next person forward.
“Wait.” Claire leaned over the counter, fear made her speak. “Can’t I just leave the package and go?”
He silently pointed to the chairs lined up against the far wall. Her legs wobbly, Claire found a seat.
An anxious hour passed as she waited. Two guards were replaced by two more. The line in the lobby grew. It looked so civilized, she marveled. So bureaucratic. A slow-moving government line seen in any city. But on the other side of these walls were room after room of Gestapo torture chambers. She imagined the darkness, the pain. Her concentration wavered; she felt the fingers of fear hook into her stomach. She glanced toward the door facing the street. Her body itched to walk out. But if she made it, what about Claire Badeau?
A grip on her elbow startled her. A crisp voice, textbook English. “Mrs. Badeau, come with me.”
Claire looked into the face of a German officer. His dark hair slicked back, thin face overwhelmed by a scar that traced down his cheek. She reached for her purse and straightened her skirt as she stood, taking an extra moment to think. This wasn’t supposed to happen, she was sure of it.
Her heart raced as she was guided toward the guards and the hallway. She estimated the distance as she neared the banner, prepared to jerk free. Her hand brushed against the vial in her cuff. A sharp wrench on her arm threw her off balance, she stumbled into the officer.
He guided her into the corridor, then turned into an office, an unknown insignia over the doorway. He locked the door behind them. Motioning for Claire to sit in a wooden chair, he moved to the chair behind a heavy oak desk.
His stare tracked over her as she perched on the chair. She slid her shaking hands out of sight beneath her legs. Her identification and the package were piled neatly in front on him.
“Mrs. Badeau,” he said.
She held her breath and waited.
He watched her, unbuttoned the top button of his jacket, his lips formed the slightest smile. “I am Kapitän Heydrich.”
He meant to calm her, she realized, to show her he meant her no harm. She bit off a hysterical laugh in the back of her mouth. He might actually believe she was Claire Badeau. A meddling American on a mission of mercy.
“Mrs. Badeau, why have you come here?”
“Kapitän Heydrich,” she said with a smile, “do you mean Paris or this building?”
“Both.”
Claire leaned forward in her chair. “I married a Frenchman. He died. I stayed in Paris because, well, I don’t like being lonely.”
His eyebrows raised a fraction as he realized what she meant. “Does Paris meet your needs?”
She let a flush roll up her cheeks, an embarrassed grin. “It is improving.”
His lips twitched toward a smile as he lit a cigarette, accepted the compliment for the entire German army. “And why are you here today?”
Claire shrugged. Not too interested, Odette had warned. “I am a member of Foyer du Soldat. I have a list of prisoners to deliver packages to. Food, necessities.” Claire pulled the slip from her purse and dropped it on top of the papers on his desk. “Mr. Nash is on my list.”
“Do you know Mathew Nash?”
Claire shook her head and pointed toward the list.
With the cigarette, he gestured at her identification card in front of him. “How long have you stayed at this address?”
“Since May 1940.”
“Your neighbors?” he said.
“What about them?” Claire fought to keep her voice smooth. These questions weren’t part of the note and not part of the plan. This had to be wrong.
“They know you?”
Claire smiled at Heydrich, glanced at her watch. “Kapitän, I understand you have an important job to do, but I do have a lunch date. Perhaps you could see that this package gets to Nash for me, and I could be on my way?”
He stared at her, his e
xpression didn’t change. She saw suspicion in his eyes.
She smiled at him then, lowered her tone. “You do have my address. You could always come by some evening if you had any other questions.”
He leaned back in his chair, took a deep drag of his cigarette. “Perhaps.” He grabbed her papers and the package, and walked to the door. He turned and looked back at her, buttoning his top button. “Wait.” He left and locked the door behind him.
Claire released the breath she’d been holding. Muffled voices grew and then receded down the hall. Claire shot off the chair, across the room, and pressed her ear against the door. Silence. She rattled the handle. It didn’t budge.
She’d roomed with a girl once who could pick locks with a hairpin. A useful talent when they were kicked out of their apartment. But Claire didn’t have a hairpin. She turned to the desk.
The first three drawers were locked. The fourth slid open with a bang. Once her heart started beating again, she found an expensive fountain pen, a pack of cigarettes and one paperclip.
Claire bent it and stuck the pointed end into the lock. She pressed her ear against the door and shut her eyes, relying on her fingers to tell her when something gave. A loud snap startled her. She dropped the paperclip, fell backward and smacked the chair with her hip.
The doorknob rattled, then turned. Claire shoved herself onto her chair. She landed in the seat as the door opened.
“The package was delivered. Mr. Nash sends his warmest regards.” Heydrich closed the door behind him.
It took everything she had to smile, nod her thanks.
He locked the door and leaned back against it, her passport and identification card held up in front of him like a game of keep-away. “Your lunch appointment?”
“Of course.” Claire stood, smoothing her skirt. She reached for the card.
He grabbed her hand and jerked her toward the wall. The door rattled on its hinges as she hit, the wind knocked out of her. He pressed her, his free hand reached under her skirt. His seeking fingers slid beneath her underwear and hooked upward between her legs. A sharp pain burst inside her as he jerked up hard with his hand.
“I have questions.” He smiled at her as she squirmed. His fingers rigid, his hand thrust up again. Claire bit down on her bottom lip.
“You like that, lonely Fräulein?” He shoved, nearly lifting her from the floor.
Claire stiffened; her body lead, all her awareness concentrated on the pain in her mouth. His face inches from hers; she watched beads of sweat break out on his upper lip.
His mouth twisted, his eyes closed. Another jerk, and he let out a satisfied breath and pulled his hand away. With a decorated sleeve, he wiped the sweat from his face. “I have many questions.” His mouth drew close, as if to kiss her.
Yanking away, Claire slammed her head into the wall behind her.
A small smile, the slightest regretful shake of his head, and he tucked her papers inside her shirt. “Later.” He promised, reaching for the door.
Loud voices, one hoarse, rose outside the door. Heydrich sighed and gripped her left arm. They heard a scuffle, the crack of bone on bone, and the voices faded. He pulled a key from his pocket and opened the door, pushed her ahead of him into the hall.
Claire stared at the banner as he locked the door behind them. About fifteen feet, she guessed, to the lower left corner of the banner and behind it a certain crevice. The four soldiers guarding the hallway faced the other direction.
The blood pounding in her ears, in one motion Claire swept her free hand past her captured elbow and jacket cuff, hooking the vial with her finger. She palmed the vial in her free hand. Heydrich dropped the keys in his pocket, pleasant smile returned to his face, and started toward the lobby with Claire at his side. Two steps before the banner ended, Claire tripped and fell hard against the wall, tangling Heydrich with her legs. He stumbled to the floor next to her.
She kept her palm closed on the vial to take the impact. Don’t break the glass in your hand, she ordered herself as the pain shot up through her knuckles. Blinking the tears out of her eyes, she stretched to the banner, slipped her hand underneath, felt a smooth crevice under her fingers and released the vial.
“Was zur Hölle!” Heydrich lurched upright.
He slapped her with the back of his hand and shoved her past the soldiers into the lobby. Her legs wobbled as she stepped, free, out onto the sidewalk.
“Claire!” a voice called out from behind her. “Claire Harris Stone!”
The guards’ gazes flicked toward her. She forced her feet to move. One shaky step after another, she turned left from the doors and hurried down the sidewalk, darting inside a restaurant’s shadowed entry.
A man burst out of the Gestapo doorway. Feldgrau uniform, red swastika armband glinting in the sun. The officer that had passed her as she waited in line. Her body went cold. She knew who it was. The German she’d met in New York. The businessman. Alby. Albrecht von Richter.
“Claire,” he shouted again and started her direction. Two soldiers followed.
She hurried out of the restaurant doorway, head down staring at her watch, then scurried into the street. Behind her, she heard the squealing of tires, a crash and shouting. She glanced back as she slipped into an alley.
A delivery truck had swerved around von Richter and hit a streetlight. The driver held his cheek with one hand. Von Richter was pounding on the crumpled hood of his truck, the guards had their guns pulled.
Claire turned and ran. At the alley’s end, she nearly gagged from the smell of a pile of rotting trash in a boarded-up doorway. A quick glance behind her, and Claire slipped off her armband and red jacket. Holding her breath, she dug down into soggy, dirty papers, rotting food, a dead rat. She shoved the armband inside, then the jacket.
Claire joined the flow of pedestrians onto rue d’Anjou and clamped down on thoughts that threatened to spin into darkness. Von Richter was here and he’d recognized her.
Only one thing she knew for sure. Grey was the truck driver.
An elderly man with silver hair scrutinized roses at Madame Palain’s side as Claire entered the shop. “They are a young couple, a small ceremony. This small thing I can give,” he said.
“Of course, Monsieur, I understand.” Madame’s eyes washed over Claire as Claire passed them without a word and hurried up the stairs to her room.
Shutting the door firmly behind her, Claire turned on the faucet over the washbasin and stripped down as it filled. Don’t think, she commanded herself. Her mind fastened on the cotton rag she dipped in the cool water, working a thin sliver of soap into a lather and methodically scrubbing her skin until it glowed red.
“Claire,” Madame said from the bottom of the stairs.
“Une minute.” Claire grabbed her towel, dried herself and slipped on a clean dress. She leaned out the doorway, found Madame waiting on the foot of the stairs. “Yes, Madame?”
The florist scanned Claire’s face, her expression worried. Her mouth opened to speak, clamped shut. A determined frown and she tried again. “Your friend?”
“It seems as though my friend is going to be better. Thank you, Madame.”
Madame nodded as if relieved, but kept her eyes on Claire. “I am going to close up early this afternoon. We have been paid with a chicken. I will make coq au vin. Would you care to join me?”
Claire clenched the doorjamb, felt tears form in the corners of her eyes. Madame worried for her. It was a grand offer of discreet compassion, of conversation with nothing said but much heard. Claire had to clear her throat before she spoke. “Thank you, Madame, but no. I have some reading to do.”
Madame watched her, nodded deliberately, as if that were a reasonable excuse. “Of course.” She disappeared from view.
Claire leaned back against the door and sucked in a ragged breath. The sun glinted in the window, illuminating dust motes. The oak parquet floor was golden in the light. Safe.
Steps creaked on the stairs. Claire straightened, the forced
smile returned. Madame stopped in the doorway; she held a delicate crystal bud vase. In it, one exquisite pale blush rose. “For your reading, then,” she said, handing Claire the vase, a quick kiss on each cheek, before descending the stairs.
Claire centered the vase on a silver tray atop the dresser. This was the grace that Madame practiced. Claire still gazed at it when the front door thudded shut and the lock clicked into place.
A heavy silence filled the empty shop. The weight of it pressed the air from her lungs; her pulse began to race. Avoiding her reflection, she plucked the garden photo from the mirror’s edge and drifted toward the bed. The mattress creaked as she curled up into a ball on top of the covers, the way she slept as a child. Head resting on a pillow, she held the photo in front of her face.
She could smell the sweet fragrance of apple blossoms and lush grass. She could feel the tree’s rough bark under her fingers, the smooth cold marble of the statue, the goddess’ knowing stone eyes looking down at her. Time slowed then stopped.
Claire slept.
She awoke in darkness, heart thumping. She sat up, unsure of what woke her. A sharp tap on her half-open window and a small pebble rolled across the floor. Claire tiptoed to the window.
The stars were out, a sliver of a moon. A dark form looked up from the shadows in the doorway of Dupré’s store. Claire leaned back against the wall in the darkness. The Nazis would have busted in the door and pulled her out by her hair, she told herself. She peered out again. There was something familiar.
Claire hurried down the stairs. She felt her way across the dark shop and unlocked the front door. A moment later Grey slipped inside and clicked the door shut behind him.
“Away from the windows,” he said, motioning with his head.
Claire led him to the back of the shop, up the stairs to her room.
As he stepped in behind her, she became intimately aware of his body next to hers, so near her still-warm bed. She slid away from him, closing the shutters. The room fell into darkness. Fumbling with a match, she lit a candle.
