“I said, I did.”
“Why?”
There was a strange confidence in Conti’s eyes. “God’s truth, I wanted your stay to be a hospitable one, so I thought some wine would be appropriate. You looked road weary, exhausted.”
“Were you trying to get us drunk?”
“Non, monsieur.”
“Were you trying to get us off guard?”
“No! I mean, I thought you might want to relax after fighting the storm, and a little wine can go a long way. It is our specialty, after all.”
Tiedemann kept to himself any comment about the quality of the Conti specialty. “Who else knew you had opened your cellars to us?”
“My father-in-law.”
Tiedemann paused and looked over at each of his officers. Springer was oblivious and was apparently choosing the location on Conti’s body for his next kick, but Krauss returned his gaze with an interested look. Perhaps some things were finally starting to make sense.
“Tell me, was Herr Rimbault happy with our arrival here?”
“My father-in-law is not… fond of Germany.”
“Indeed. One has but to spend two minutes with him to see little other than abject hatred.”
Conti looked increasingly uncomfortable. “Sir, hatred is a very strong word. He is simply reeling from the collapse of our nation. He is only frustrated that we took you in after we already have lost so much as Frenchmen.”
“I disagree,” Tiedemann countered. “I think he is a crafty, spiteful man that had plenty of motivation to raise a hand against us. Tell me, what were you and he arguing about last night?”
“Arguing? I-I don’t understand.”
“You were having a verbal fight with Rimbault. Herr Springer here even saw it before your father-in-law closed the door on him.”
“Sir, that was not an argument, that was simply a discussion about the wine cellars. Marc did not like the idea of giving our best stores to you while you were here, since that is what we need to sell in order to survive. He thought we should keep—”
“So, a French nationalist with a hostile attitude who discovers that German soldiers, potentially off guard and slightly inebriated, are going to the cellar to steal his wine. Pretty strong motivation for a murder, wouldn’t you say?”
“No, wait, you misconstrued what I said—”
“Herr Conti, who killed my officer?”
There was a slight pause. “Oh, God. I don’t know. Please believe me, I don’t know. We didn’t mean for anything bad to happen. I don’t know.”
“Well, I think I do. We have heard enough for now. Springer, take him out.”
“Herr Tiedemann,” Conti pleaded, “please, you have the wrong impression. No one here has raised a hand against you. Please!”
Springer and the soldier standing guard went over and picked up the prisoner. Conti’s body contorted in pain as they hauled him out, and Tiedemann was left with the bespectacled lieutenant Krauss. The two men said nothing for several moments as they reflected on what they had heard.
“So, Krauss. Do you think Rimbault is guilty? That a deep hatred pushes him over the edge when a couple Germans pop open a few shitty-tasting wine bottles?”
Krauss shook his head. “It seems to me that there are still quite a few pieces missing.”
“More than a few,” Tiedemann agreed. “For the life of me I don’t know why anyone would risk retaliation. Conti is correct. Why wouldn’t they just leave us alone?” He stroked his chin. “And why wouldn’t they hide the body?”
“Perhaps Rimbault is crazy? With his loathing for us overpowering any sort of normal restraint?”
Tiedemann thought about that possibility. “Perhaps. But unlikely. I think we have a bit more work to do before we finger our criminal.”
“Of course.”
“I need some time for my mind to sort through the facts. Bring in the area maps and let’s lay them on the table. Maybe reviewing our route back to Perpignan will help my subconscious work things out.”
“Jawohl. Anything else, Herr Hauptsturmführer?”
“Send Springer to the cellar to check on the airman. See if he thinks Cartwright could have been hiding down there. Maybe we missed something. I can’t rule out the Briton’s role in Hoffman’s death yet.”
Tiedemann’s stomach growled.
“And get something to eat, for God’s sake, before we all pass out from hunger.”
11
Gabrielle had not eaten a single thing so far that day, so it was a bit of a shock when she was ushered into the kitchen to prepare food.
At first she thought it might be a Godsend. A gruff German had retrieved her from one of the bedrooms and brought her downstairs to join her mother. Unfortunately, once they realized the quantity of food they were supposed to prepare, it was apparent they weren’t being asked to feed themselves.
There was a lot to do. Mama sliced the bread while two soldiers marched Gabrielle to the pantry at the bottom of the spiral staircase. She had to all but empty out the family food stores to get enough for so many soldiers. Then Gabrielle had to stifle her resentment as they chopped turnips, potatoes, and carrots and threw them in the pot. A little lamb haunch went in for some substance and the pot was set to simmer.
Food was so hard to come by these days. It wasn’t right that someone else was going to eat what the Contis needed to survive. Why couldn’t the soldiers consume what they brought with them?
Mama was a ball of anxiety. Gabrielle was glad she had inherited her temperament from her father. She tried to give her mother’s arm a squeeze here and there to reassure her.
“It will be all right, Mama. We will get through this.”
“I’m so scared!” Mama whispered back. Her wrinkled eyes looked as if they could start spilling tears any moment.
“Mama, don’t cry now. Don’t let them see you do that. Focus on the kitchen work.”
Yes—so thankful that her nerve came from her father. This family wasn’t big enough for two women who couldn’t keep it together.
The stew warmed and Gabrielle and her mother tried to look busy while they waited. They would take turns moving things across the counter and shuffling up the unused ends of vegetables so that the soldiers would think they were still working. After a half hour, one of them—a tall, sandy-haired boy who would have been cute if not for the hard look in his eyes—barked something in German as he pointed to the pot. He obviously wanted to know when it would be ready.
“Gabrielle, what do we tell them? It won’t be finished for an hour,” Mama said. It took time for a stew to come together.
“They seem to want it now, Mama. We’ll have to give it to them. It’s not going to be us eating it.”
“What will we eat?” her mother whispered.
Gabrielle’s stomach echoed the sentiment. “Not everything I cut up went into the pot. Here. Take these potatoes and put them under your apron when the guards aren’t looking.”
“They’re raw.”
“They’re food. Take them.”
After more insistence from the guard, Gabrielle signaled that the soup was “done” for whatever that meant. The soldiers had a brief conversation before one of them jerked his head and motioned for her to follow him.
Gabrielle knew she didn’t have a choice. With a lingering glance toward her mother, she stepped forward until the German roughly took her elbow and guided her to the far end of the kitchen. The German directed her through hand gestures and unintelligible orders to fill a basket with bread. Next he had her fill a smaller pot with stew. Lastly, she was forced to sling the basket over her arm and carry the soup pot out of the kitchen, using a towel to insulate her hands from the heat. On the way out she saw the other soldier making her mother do the exact same thing. Apparently they were also to be the wait staff in addition to the chefs.
The sandy-haired soldier looked like he was perhaps Gabrielle’s age. He led her through several corridors until they arrived at the front landing, where anothe
r German was conversing with the sergeant with the scar on his jaw. So, they were guarding the front door. Gabrielle longingly wondered what would happen if she made a break for it. The fantasy did not last long as her eyes slid over to the machine pistol that the soldier carried over his shoulder.
Her escort pointed at the basket she was carrying and again spoke words that she didn’t understand. Nonetheless, it was clear what she was supposed to do. She put the pot of soup on the floor and took two bowls out of the basket for the Germans to use. The sergeant snatched one from her and helped himself , followed by the other guard. Gabrielle closed her eyes at such a lack of manners. She felt like she was feeding farm animals.
The boy German snatched at her elbow to lead her to the next stop. Gabrielle angrily pulled out of his grasp and cursed at him. He glared at her. For a moment, panic balled up in her stomach as she thought back to Springer. Gabrielle prayed she hadn’t made a terrible mistake. The thought of being beaten again frightened her, and while this German was still a boy, he was a soldier too.
Luckily the tension was broken when the sergeant reached for another slice of bread. The boy stepped back, and Gabrielle took advantage of the moment to put on a display of meekness as she picked up her basket. It seemed to work. Her German handler pointed down the corridor. Gabrielle took a breath of relief and retrieved the soup pot.
The pair left the foyer and passed through the Great Room. Gabrielle shuddered at the thought of how they had been lined up earlier that morning. No one was there now, and she didn’t know if that was a good thing or a bad thing. They kept moving and traced their way through the halls to a back bedroom. A guard holding a rifle stood outside the door, and he smiled broadly when he understood why they were there. He loosened his rifle strap and swung it over his shoulder so that he could use both hands to get at the food.
Gabrielle wondered why this soldier was all the way over here away from the other Germans,. Was he guarding someone? It had to be—they had broken everyone up from the Great Room and moved them to separate places. Who could it be? Her father? Philippe? Gabrielle was dying for some affirmation that everyone else was all right and, while they were enduring an unfair and barbaric invasion of their home life, she knew they could all get through it if they just kept their heads.
She realized with a start that her sandy-haired escort was watching her intently. As if reading her mind, he nodded his head toward the bedroom door. Was that an invitation to look inside?
Gabrielle eyed him uncertainly. His eyes were so… weary. He must have seen some action already. But yet the offer was there. Why? She thought back to moments before, when she had pulled her elbow away. This young man had not retaliated.
She studied his face. He must understand, she decided. He still saw her as a human being. Some humanity was still present that could acknowledged how Gabrielle felt at her world being turned upside down by a home invasion. Despite it all, she was still a person in his eyes.
Taking a step forward, Gabrielle pushed down on the door latch and cracked the door open.
Girard was crumpled on the floor in a pile of torn clothes. The well-groomed graying hair that adorned his head was matted and unkempt, and his face was swollen with cuts and bruises. But the worst of it was the look in his eyes as he stared at the opening door. There was fear there, pure and simple, at who might be coming in to deal with him. If it hadn’t been for the shock, tears would have certainly welled up in Gabrielle’s eyes.
The German escort abruptly shut the door. Enough, he signaled. Time for them to continue their circuit.
Gabrielle’s temper started to smolder again. Poor Girard. How could they have done that to him? Didn’t they understand that her family had nothing to do with this soldier’s death? A bunch of drunken buffoons sauntering around their home—with guns, no less. Why couldn’t they accept that perhaps this man had an accident of some sort?
The obvious answer came to her as they walked. The Germans had beaten Girard because they could. Their egos, their sense of superiority, their conditioning would all drive them to find the enemy. Any enemy. For the first time, she wondered if maybe everything wouldn’t turn out all right.
A few more stops and they returned down the servants’ corridor back to the kitchen. She refilled her soup pot and wished Mama was back with her. The thought of Girard and what might be in store for the rest of them kept echoing in her head. He had been in her family’s employment for ever since she could remember. He lived with them and had practically helped raise Gabrielle and Philippe. She hoped that he was really okay. Moreover, she hoped to God that Mama didn’t see anyone who had been beaten like that. Her mother would not be able to cope.
When the pot was topped off, the German soldier motioned her over to the spiral staircase.
Gabrielle froze, feeling fear creeping into her stomach. Why would her escort want her to go into the cellar with him?
“Komm, Fräulein,” he insisted.
Gabrielle took a deep breath and stepped forward. They proceeded single file down the rickety staircase into the cool air of the underground. The main corridor had originally been a natural passage that her paternal grandfather, Papa’s father, had widened and finished out as a convenient way to get to the underground cave. That giant, naturally-occurring cavern was where they stored all of the wine barrels during the fermentation process. But that was further underground. The German nodded again for her to walk ahead, and Gabrielle had to assume they were instead headed toward the Conti’s personal wine cellar where they stored finished bottles.
She was right. It took only a minute before they were at the brick arch and the racks of bottles beyond. Another soldier stood guard here, also young, but with dark hair and a harsh scowl that made him look ugly. Gabrielle’s jaw tightened when she saw Springer standing next to him.
“Well, well, what have we here?” The blond officer had a bored, disinterested look that quickly evaporated. It reminded Gabrielle of what a lion might look like when it spotted a potential prey.
“Food,” she said. She glared at him, refusing to break eye contact.
“Most generous. Are you handling our stay well enough?”
Gabrielle blinked at the oddity of his manners. Springer’s voice was disarmingly friendly. Was this the same man that had so savagely beaten her during her interrogation? He was smiling at her.
“I’m… alright.” She stood there in the doorway, holding her basket.
“Forgive me for my behavior earlier,” Springer continued. “Sometimes things get a little carried away during interrogations. I’m used to questioning Russians, not members of a peaceful French family. How is your face? I hope I did not leave a mark on you?”
“It’s fine.”
“Very well.” Springer tipped the edge of the basket with his finger and examined how much bread was left. “Excellent, just enough. Let’s dispense what we have here, shall we?”
The soup was poured and the bread loaf broken into several chunks divided between the guard, Gabrielle’s escort, and Springer. Springer offered a remaining piece of bread to Gabrielle. Cautiously, she took it from his hand. With no apparent repercussions, ravenous hunger overtook her and she greedily stuffed the bread into her mouth. Who knew when she would get another opportunity?
A raspy cough off to her right caught Gabrielle’s attention. She turned and her eyes fell upon a huddled figured sitting on the floor. She gasped, inadvertently choking on some of the breadcrumbs still in her mouth.
It was Stefan.
She had to look twice to make sure. Girard had looked bad, but there weren’t words for what had been done to the Englishman. Stefan had his back against the far wall, forearms on his knees, hunched over in obvious pain. Cuts littered his swollen, dirty cheeks. His clothing was soiled and torn far beyond the state it had been the night before. The Germans had beaten him solidly.
Stefan’s eyes were looking intently at her. Danger.
Gabrielle stared back blankly, a jumble of thoughts
in her head. She had not had much direct contact with the Englishman. Her father and grandfather had kept him sequestered since he had stumbled into their home almost a week ago—although ever since then, they had all had it drilled into their heads that if anyone found out about him, he had only been there “two nights.” During the day, the three of them plus Girard were nowhere to be found. In the evenings, the men all congregated in the Great Room while Mama, Gabrielle, and Philippe tended to the house.
Nonetheless, Gabrielle had spied on him. She was intensely curious about this handsome, foreign soldier who had appeared randomly out of the night. He had noticed, too. A lingering glance or a nod and smile had come her way at least once a day. They didn’t need to speak the same language to have a basic level of communication.
Stefan’s eyes suddenly grew wide and he threw his hands up over his head.
Gabrielle jumped aside in a panic. Then the laughter hit her ears, and she watched Springer make another menacing lunge at their prisoner. Stefan flinched again as he threw his hands protectively over his head. The Englishman looked just like her father had when he had been beaten for talking in the Great Room.
Gabrielle had her own chance to flinch when Springer grabbed her by the elbow.
“Ah, my dear, don’t worry about him,” he said. His voice was light and jovial. “We’ll protect you. Those British, they’re just animals. Don’t know the first thing about hygiene, either, do they? Look at this one, all covered in dirt and blood. Can’t say I like it. Smells, too. It must be easy to get knocked around a bit down here underground.”
Springer clearly got a laugh out of his own wit. He spoke in German to his companions and got more snickers before turning back to her. “Now, let’s help you finish your rounds so that you can get back, shall we? We don’t want you to be late. I’ll take over as your escort. There’s only one more stop anyway, so it shouldn’t take long. Come, yes?”
There wasn’t much of a choice. She gave a last lingering look towards Stephen’s beaten face. He was staring at her again, the same message of warning in his eyes.
The Hazards of War Page 8
