by Lynn Sheene
“Madame Badeau is just leaving,” von Richter said and turned to his desk.
The Comte pulled Claire toward him. “You play with fire,” he whispered in her ear then kissed her cheek. “Au revoir, Madame. I hope to see you again. Soon.”
“Madame Badeau,” von Richter said, the impatience clear in his tone.
“Au revoir.” Claire sucked in a deep breath as she stepped into the hall. She didn’t know if she should run for the exit or dress for lunch. She pressed her ear to the wood.
Américaine? the Comte said.
They should start getting used to real men between their legs, von Richter said with a laugh.
She slid from the door as she heard the creak of hobnailed boots in the hallway. Soon, the Comte said. She didn’t know his game, but she would play along, if that was what it took. If not, then she just had to make sure he died first. She strolled past the soldiers toward the stairs. Her olive skirt and jacket for lunch, then.
Place Vendôme. July 12, 1944.
A soft rain tapped the awning in front of the Ritz. Claire pulled her coat tight as she stepped out onto the sidewalk, nodding at the soldiers positioned on each side of door. The sun had dipped behind the rooftops, leaving the square in misty blue-toned shadow.
Claire waited for von Richter’s car. Another evening hung up at the SD office on avenue Foch, he was already an hour late for the dinner and show at Le Bal des Etoiles. The breeze was perfumed with blooming chestnut trees. It smells of summer, Claire. No army can stop that, Madame Palain told her last year when the trees blossomed on their street. It had been a beautiful day, the shop windows glowing with a golden light. Madame’s arms had been full of jasmine. The memory dug into Claire’s chest. She sighed and tugged on the waistband of her yellow silk dress, reflexively checking the seams of her silk stockings.
She needed a drink.
Last night she’d dreamed of Marta and Anna again. Claire never saw their faces, only heard them. Sobbing. Keening. She awoke sweating in her sheets, her eyes swollen. She was dressed and in her coat before she convinced herself not to go see them. You endanger everyone you know, everyone you touch, Odette had said. Now on the street she thought of Madame and her eyes ached. I just need to get out, a little music, she scolded herself.
Her body tensed as she watched a burly dark-haired man striding on the opposite sidewalk. A resemblance to Jacques, but when he turned onto the street, she saw a long thin face she didn’t know. She released her held breath.
Claire saw Jacques once last winter after Odette’s warning, as she walked along the Champs-Elysées. He was waiting for her in a doorway. He made sure she saw him but said nothing, his face hard. She understood the message, and on ration day before Christmas, Claire rode the Métro to the 14th arrondissement and found Adele Oberon in the ration line on rue Brézin. Claire said nothing but slipped one last message and a pile of francs and reichsmarks in Adele’s shopping bag before she walked away. Then the dreams began.
Claire watched the rain drip from the leaves of chestnut trees and puddle onto the cobblestones. Bullets couldn’t stop summer’s sweet offering. But the sky wept for Madame Palain.
“He’s put some meat back on your bones.”
Sylvie shrugged on a jacket as she scrutinized Claire from silk dress to strappy heel. Claire stared at the street. She wasn’t in the mood to trade jabs today. Together they watched von Richter’s car approach.
Sylvie leaned into Claire’s ear. “Enjoy it while it lasts.”
The car door opened. Claire slipped in next to von Richter.
He scowled at Sylvie as they accelerated into traffic. “What was that foolish woman talking about?”
Claire watched Sylvie out of the rear window until she disappeared from sight. She smiled at von Richter, slid over onto his lap. “She said you were making me fat.”
He raised his eyebrows. “At Le Bal des Etoiles, I will be the judge.” He squeezed her thigh.
The cabaret had already started when they were shown to their table. On the stage, women in garters, hats and little else rode carousel animals to a jaunty circus tune. The smoke-filled room was packed with German soldiers on their Tour Paris. Claire drank deep at her scotch as von Richter rested a hand on her leg. She blew him a kiss.
Three hours and too many drinks later, the music ended. The soldiers in front called for more and pounded empty bottles on their tables. Von Richter laughed at them, finished a desultory cigarette and pulled Claire to her feet. The couple joined the crowd emptying the theater and teetered toward the exit.
Claire leaned against von Richter, her body pleasantly numb, her mind fully occupied with staying upright. Still, she noticed the soldiers watching her, the yellow silk cut tight and low against her skin. Whispers, gazes like wolves, but von Richter’s uniform earned a wide berth.
Their car waited out front, headlights nearly invisible through the pounding rain. The driver waited at the entrance with an umbrella. Claire’s dress was soaked when she stumbled into the backseat.
They pulled onto rue Victor Massé and von Richter gave the driver an order in German. The driver glanced at Claire in the mirror. A quick nod. Passing headlights spun around her. The air was thick with cigarette smoke, and the drink churned in her stomach. She wished she could roll down the window. She closed her eyes.
The driver pulled into a dark alley and killed the engine. Claire opened her eyes as the driver unbuttoned his uniform jacket. He lit a cigarette.
Von Richter leaned into her, gripped her shoulder strap with one hand then yanked. The thin fabric tore away.
“Alby,” Claire said, trying to shove him back. “I just bought this.”
He pushed her down onto the seat, gripped the bodice and ripped.
“Merde, Alby,” Claire said through gritted teeth, pushing against him.
His face spun above her. She heard his zipper. Her legs were forced open. He was clumsy, too drunk. He whispered hoarsely in German as he entered her.
She leaned her head back, trying to keep her dinner down. Upside down, she watched rivulets of water run up the rear window. The driver’s eyes watched in the rearview mirror. A surge of anger and she swung her arms. He deflected her with an elbow, and her knuckles smacked something under the seat. A briefcase. Her heart began to pound.
Von Richter finished, grunted and pulled away. He sat back in the seat, his pants half-open. Another command to the driver. Zigaretten und alkohol. The driver started the car and pulled back onto the street. A few blocks later, they stopped in front of a brasserie. The driver pounded on the door until it opened. He disappeared inside.
Claire pulled at the shreds of her dress around her, her eyes out the window. She had seen the briefcase twice before on his desk. And both times found it empty. But tonight, here it was. Straight from his office.
Von Richter closed his eyes. His voice trailed off to a snore. Another breath, Claire watched the brasserie. The driver was still inside. She plucked a matchbook off the seat and slid onto her knees on the floorboards. She glanced back at von Richter. His eyes were closed, head tipped back. She flipped open the case’s leather flap and slid out the contents. Von Richter’s boot moved next to her. She froze. Another snore. She lit a match.
The top of the pile was Signal, the Nazis’ version of Life magazine. Beneath, a typed form with a column of items and a column of numbers, with lines for signatures. A request form. She struggled to make out the words. Opel Blitz. Quantity 11. Heavy transport trucks, she’d seen them hauling soldiers. Division der SS. Soldiers then, too. But it was the words written across the bottom that caught her eye. Fort Montluc zu Compiègne. 23/07/44. She knew those places. Both prisons. A convoy then, prison transport.
Her hands shook as she flipped the page. A list of names. Another match lit and she skimmed the print. Kinsel, Raymond. They had captured Christophe? She got to the bottom of the page. That was all.
Von Richter shifted and exhaled. Claire shoved the papers into the briefcase. No, she protested silently
. Another match flamed. She pulled the pages out and reread the names, one by one. The match burned her fingers as she flipped the page over. Five more names were listed. Grey, Thomas Harding was the last.
Outside, a door slammed. She shoved the papers into the case and slid onto the seat as the driver opened the door.
Von Richter opened his eyes and sat up, zipping his pants. “Zigaretten.” He lit a cigarette then reached for the bottle. “Drink?” He tipped the bottle toward Claire.
She shook her head and slid her trembling hands beneath her. Grey was alive. The engine started, they pulled into the street. Von Richter drank, she turned to stare out into the rain. In eleven days, Grey would be outside prison walls. He could be rescued.
The bottle was half-empty when they pulled up in front of the Ritz. Von Richter leaned on her shoulder through the lobby, his briefcase swinging loosely in one hand. At the base of the stairs, he pushed Claire against the wall and ran a finger down bare skin. Claire forced herself to look up into his eyes and smile. He pressed his lips against hers.
“Duty,” he said regretfully, thumping the case. He smirked at the soldier standing guard then laboriously worked his way up the stairs.
The sentry stared at the skin revealed by Claire’s ripped dress. She spun and hurried down the long corridor to her room. Turning on the water in the bath and stripping down, she climbed in and began to scrub.
She stared at a small round burn on her shoulder. Von Richter’s cigarette. She hadn’t felt it. She laid back in the bath, submerged up to her face. It was worth it. Grey was alive.
She remembered Odette’s words. You are on your own. Her body tremored. What if the Resistance wouldn’t help?
They will help, she said silently. Water drained off her as she stepped out of the tub. Still dripping, she walked into the bedroom and over to her desk. She pulled out a pad of stationery; a crown decorated the top.
I found Christophe. Noon in front of the pool by the temple to discuss price.
Evelyn
The Resistance had turned away from her. But they wouldn’t abandon Kinsel. Or Grey.
Claire made the drop at first light. Café Raphael across from he dentist was closed. She didn’t wait and turned back toward her hotel. She had been counting on this news for the last few months. Grey was alive.
Lost in thought, she turned off Faubourg Saint-Honoré onto rue du Colisée, her feet making their way to their old home. Claire looked up to a tattered blue awning flapping in a brisk summer breeze over Madame Palain’s flower shop. Claire froze, the image burned onto her mind. Only the words La Vie remained. The dark windows were boarded shut. Her chest aching, she turned and hurried back to the hotel.
In her room, Claire dressed carefully in a dark grey suit, matching pillbox hat and black heels. She stood in front of the mirror and tipped her hat forward over her curls. The woman staring back had the body and face men enjoyed. But her eyes were ice.
She took a long route, up boulevard Haussmann to rue de Monceau. Turning onto rue Rembrandt, she entered parc Monceau. The air was sweet with the smell of blooms. Lush greenery invited a stroll, a quiet picnic, more. She thought of Grey, of his body enveloping hers in the grass. She plucked a white rose blossom from a bush and tucked it into her lapel.
She turned onto a narrow curving lane. She paused, her gaze on the hedges surrounding the large oval pool. The skin on her neck began to prickle. No one to be seen, but she knew what it felt like to be watched.
Across the pool were the tall marble columns, wrapped in ivy. Claire’s stomach churned as she stared into the murky pool, rubbed her clammy hands on her jacket.
“Bonjour, Claire.”
She turned. Jacques leaned against a twisting tree trunk, cigarette in his hand.
“You mean Evelyn.”
He shrugged. “It’s a bit too late for that between us.”
“Perhaps. But not for Kinsel. Or Grey.”
He faced her in two fast strides, his body inches from hers. “Who?”
“You know where I’ve been,” she said. “What I’ve been doing—”
“Who you’ve been fucking.”
“It paid off. I know where your precious Kinsel is and I know where he is going.”
“Why did you say Grey just now?”
“Because they are together. Kinsel and Grey,” she said.
He looked over her shoulder and took a drag from his cigarette.
The fear in Claire snapped. “Don’t you care? Grey is your friend. I’ve seen photos of him with your son.” When she took a breath, she realized she had been yelling. Her cheeks were wet.
He pulled the cigarette from his mouth, started to speak then stopped.
She wiped her eyes. “I know you don’t care about me. Not anymore. I did what I had to do. For Grey and for those girls. And I found him.”
“In the note you said there was a price for Kinsel.”
“Yeah. There is. Get Grey too.”
“That all?”
“No.”
He smirked.
“I want two transports on an escape line out of here.”
“For you and who else? This German?” He dropped the cigarette on the ground and carefully snubbed it out with his boot. Finally he looked up at her. “Odette didn’t come today because she refused to do what was necessary. What was ordered.”
Claire’s body went cold.
“You demanded payment to help the Resistance. You survived unharmed when Grey was captured. You live like a queen with Nazi scum, you said to find Grey, but we were betrayed again. And this time, we lost Kinsel and seven good men. Maybe you are a traitor; maybe you are greedy. I cannot say. But you have become too great of a risk.” He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a pistol. “I am here to end this.”
She stared him straight in the eyes. “A prison transport. They are in Montluc. They are going to be transported to Compiègne on July twenty-third. There will be eleven transport trucks, at least sixty-five prisoners. I don’t know how many soldiers. But that will be your chance. You have to do it.” Her body tensed in anticipation of a bullet.
He held the gun steady, his finger against the trigger. But Claire saw uncertainty in his eyes.
“You’re right. I’m not a good person. No one should do the things I’ve done. But someday this goddamn war will end. And it won’t matter who we killed if we didn’t save those we love.” She stepped forward, felt the barrel press into her stomach. “Whatever you do, Jacques, save Grey.”
He examined her, mouth turned down. “Merde alors! Odette was right. You do love him.” He lowered the pistol. “If Grey lives, I would not let him rot in a boche prison.”
“Convince them, Jacques.”
“Impossible.”
“I’m not going anywhere. If I am lying, you know where to find me.”
He swore and slipped the gun back into his pocket. “I will do what I can.”
When he was out of sight, Claire stumbled to a park bench and collapsed. She was back in her hotel room before she stopped trembling.
That night, Claire dined with von Richter and two officers at Le Boeuf sur le Toit. They sat at a dark table near the mahogany bar, the wall covered in photos and engraved mirrors. Claire watched herself play with a curl of hair in the reflection as the men spoke German. She sipped champagne, pointedly ignoring the looks they gave her. She didn’t know what von Richter was telling them. Nor did she care.
In ten days, Grey would be transported to Compiègne prison. If the Resistance didn’t believe her, if they didn’t act, she knew what was next. Prisoners stayed at Compiègne only so long. Then they were shipped away to German camps. Those people never came back. She took a long drink, let the bubbles slide over her tongue. She couldn’t drown the ache in her chest. She turned to the waiter in a starched white vest that hovered around their table.
“The bathroom?”
“This way, Madame.” He led her to an oak-lined hallway.
As he pushed open a
door he breathed into her ear. “Evelyn?”
She turned, her heart in her throat.
“They will try.” He turned and walked away.
Chapter 12
THE ESCAPE
Place Vendôme. July 23, 1944.
Ten mornings later, Claire watched through her hotel room window as the sky brightened from deep violet to a saturated blue. In her mind, she saw Grey huddled in a prison cell, his eyes opening to darkness. It had been so long since he’d seen the sunrise over his garden. Did he still have hope?
A vibrant sapphire gleam and the sun broke free of the skyline. The tune of the Billie Holiday song echoed in her mind. Just when you are near, when I hold you fast, then my dreams will whisper, you’re too lovely to last.
“A few more hours, Thomas.” The whispered words brought a lightness inside her and propelled her away from the glass. A hot bath, hair set, a sweep of crimson lipstick and a spritz of perfume. From the closet, a simple smoky-blue dress, nipped at the waist. When she looked in the mirror, she was surprised at what she saw. A flush to her cheeks, a ghost of a real smile tugging at her lips. You look like woman in love, she thought.
She pulled a small key from beneath the lamp on the night-stand then perched on the seat facing her desk. Unlocking a deep drawer, she extracted a stack of postcards, her jewelry roll and a small wad of francs. She flipped through the cards, a tugboat under the elaborate pont Alexandre, the Eiffel Tower, the Concorde. Not something she’d send—who the hell would she send them to?—but a shuffling of order was a good indicator her drawer had been searched yet again. She didn’t mind. The important thing is they found what they expected. Nothing more.
Dropping the roll and francs in her purse, she walked over to the bed and wedged herself behind the headboard. Bracing her back against the wall, she pushed the heavy frame toward the center of the room. On her knees, she slid a fingertip underneath a thin slit in the exposed carpet. A moment later, she pulled out an envelope.
