by Bodie Thoene
The old man stiffened, refusing to take Andre’s hands. “We will never be friends, Colonel. We may be allies out of necessity for this time, but we will never be friends.” His cheek twitched with emotion. “Why was it you were unable to marry Elaine?”
Carrying two brandy snifters, the butler entered the room, interrupting Andre’s reply.
Snow raised his glass. “Napoleon brandy.” He swirled the amber liquid. “From 1860. I was saving the bottle to share with the man who married Elaine. If it might have been. I will have to content myself to drink with the father of my grandchild.”
The servant left and closed the double doors behind him. “Now you must explain to me,” Snow insisted. “Why did you not marry my daughter?”
Andre studied the brandy. This was the question he had dreaded. “My grandfather threatened to disinherit me if I—”
“If you married a Jewess?” Snow finished and inhaled deeply on his brandy. “Is that correct, Colonel?”
“It is.” Did Andre’s voice betray the depth of shame he felt in that admission?
Snow raised his brows slightly in a gesture of understanding. He looked from Andre to the faint light emanating through the window. “Ah, well, it does not matter after today, does it? Our lives, our individual folly—all evaporate after today.”
“This war—this Great Folly—is made up of insignificant foolishness, Monsieur Snow. Each minute evil committed or allowed by ordinary men has evaporated into the air like water in the hot sun. We thought it did not matter,” Andre said passionately. “But now it has come back in a cloud to cover us with darkness—with storm and flood and thunder. My little sins? Joined with those of other men, they may now wash us all away.” Andre placed his snifter on the table. “I was wrong, Monsieur Snow. Terribly wrong. And others have suffered because of my cowardice. I know that now. I am a better man for the knowing.” He bowed his head. “I hope to be a worthy father.”
“In that case, pick up your glass, Colonel. I will drink with you. I should have liked you, I think, if there had been time.”
They drank together.
The servant knocked softly on the door. “Mam’zelle Juliette has just arrived, Monsieur Snow.”
“Thank you.” And then to Andre, “Have you seen her?” Snow held back the curtain and let Andre look down on the street.
Andre watched as a gray-uniformed chauffeur circled the car and opened the back passenger door. Reaching in, he extended a gloved hand to assist his passenger. Several seconds passed, and then a five-year-old girl emerged. Miraculously, she held the doll—Andre’s mother’s doll, which Andre had left for her so many months before.
Juliette was dressed all in blue: blue coat, hat, and toe shoes. Very pretty, and yet she was a picture of the unhappiness she surely felt.
The child was not in a hurry to climb the steps. As she turned her oval face up toward the house, Andre could see she was frightened. She blinked as drops of rain began to fall like tears. Turning to the open door of the vehicle, it seemed as if she would step back in.
The chauffeur bent at the waist until his face was level with hers. He smiled, gestured toward the house, then took her hand. She nodded and, with only one downward thrust of her chin, walked slowly up the steps beside the chauffeur.
“She is small,” Andre said under his breath. “So small.”
The bell rang. Andre watched his daughter enter the house. Conversation drifted up the stairs. The too-cheerful voice of the housekeeper asked the chauffeur about the weather and the roads. She asked him how his seven children were doing and then about the dance class.
“I almost missed you standing there behind fat Rene, Mademoiselle! Pardon!” the housekeeper teased. “Come here, Juliette. Let’s have a look at the costume. Ah, very fine. Beautiful, wouldn’t you say, Rene?”
Rene agreed with a laugh and then excused himself to get the young lady’s valise.
Andre’s throat constricted as he and the old man stepped out of the sitting room and stood on the landing to listen. The child’s voice was soft. Some words were lost to him. Andre peeked over the banister but could not see her face. She seemed even smaller beside Rene’s six-foot-three frame. She blended into a sapphire square of marble on the checkerboard floor of the foyer.
Boot heels clicked on the polished tiles. For an instant Andre wished his brother, Paul, were here. Paul may have envied Andre’s ability with women, but Paul was a master with children. Dumb animals and innocents were charmed by his cheerful nature and openness. Andre had always considered those traits to be foolish, but today, for the first time, he envied his brother.
“I will go down first,” said Monsieur Snow in a forced tone.
Evidently hearing the old man’s voice, the child replied hesitantly, “How do you do, Grandpapa?”
“I am very well indeed, despite the rain. Our guest has come.”
So she had come home to meet the old friend of her mother. She had come to meet Andre, who was standing frozen above them on the landing, wishing he were elsewhere.
Monsieur Snow looked up. His eyes locked on Andre’s face.
Andre was surprised to see a flash of compassion there. And a question, too. Was Andre coming down? Andre nodded curtly, drew a deep breath, and hurried down the broad, curving stairway.
“Here he comes now, I think, Juliette.” Snow put his hands on her shoulders and gently pivoted her toward the staircase.
For an instant her eyes flitted upward toward Andre.
Brown eyes. More like milk chocolate than dark. Like my own eyes.
Juliette looked quickly at the toes of her shoes. Her cheeks were flushed. She had dark eyebrows and long lashes. Andre could not see her hair color beneath the snug-fitting cap, but she appeared to be a miniature version of her mother. She was darker of complexion perhaps, but there was no doubt that this was Elaine’s child—a beautiful child.
He and Snow exchanged looks over the child’s head.
“Bonjour, Mademoiselle Juliette.” Andre extended his hand, palm up.
Still unable to meet his gaze, she touched her tiny fingertips to his.
He quickly kissed her hand and then stepped back.
“Bonjour,” she whispered.
“I am . . . I was . . . I knew your mother very well, Juliette.” Andre caught his own reflection in the gilt mirror. Today he looked older than his thirty-two years. There were dark circles under his brown eyes. His normally elegant and erect, over six-foot frame seemed a bit stooped. He had shaved, yet his face seemed dark. “I am sorry about what has happened to your maman.”
Juliette did not answer. Her chin trembled. She stared at his highly polished shoes, at his gold cuff links, at his hands and manicured nails, but never at his face.
Had Elaine told the child about him . . . about them? he wondered. “Do you know who I am, Juliette?”
“Yes, Monsieur. You are Monsieur Andre Chardon. You were ma mère’s friend a very long time ago. And I am to stay at your house now for a short time. Grandpapa says so.”
So she was unaware. It would make it easier for Andre if she did not know. Then there would be no messy sentimentality, no expectations. He began to talk as though he were discussing the sale of a thousand cases of wine.
“Very good, Juliette. Monsieur Paul and I and a fellow named Richard have a room prepared for you. We are three bachelors in a very big house and know very little about children. Monsieur Paul, my brother, is an officer at a military school . . . and away from Paris much of the time. I have duties with the government now. And there is a gentleman, Richard, whom you will meet, who is a guest there. You may think he is odd. He may seem to ignore you, but he is very bright and only thinking all the time. He may not even know you are there. A very beautiful lady from America will ride with us to Paris.”
Juliette looked up at him fiercely. “Maman kept your photograph on her dressing table.” The statement was an accusation.
Andre could see the questions in her eyes. Why had he never
come to see them? If he was such a good friend before, why did he not help Maman when she needed a friend?
Juliette’s eyes brimmed. She bit her lip to hold back tears.
Andre grimaced inwardly. He was not handling this well at all. “I was sorry to hear about your maman, Juliette. Truly I was. She was very beautiful. Bright and happy when I knew her.” Andre dropped the businesslike tone.
Silence reigned in the room.
“Are you hungry?” Andre asked. “Have you eaten? I made a reservation for supper, and then tomorrow we can go to Paris. There is a carrousel at the Tuileries if you like.”
Silence again. Juliette clasped her hands and eyed the enormous front door as though she wanted to run away.
Thankfully Snow put his hand firmly on Andre’s shoulder in a gesture of support. “Juliette, it was Colonel Chardon who gave you Giselle, your doll. You will enjoy being with him. Rene will drive you to your hotel.”
Juliette clung to her grandfather’s hand. “Will you not come too, Grandpapa?”
The old man shook his head firmly. “We have been over that. I have business.” Although Abraham Snow’s tone was abrupt, Andre saw the shine of moisture in the man’s eyes. He stooped and embraced the child briefly, then turned wordlessly and climbed the stairs to pass out of her life forever.
7
Waiting Game
What if nobody comes?
The thought occurred to Josie a hundred times as the evening deepened into night. It was after nine o’clock. She was hungry, but she dared not go down to dinner. She sat beside the window in the unlit room and tried to peer into the square. The breeze caught the red banner and lifted it, then let it fall again.
Tinny music from a phonograph playing military marches penetrated the walls. Voices and footsteps passed in the corridor. No one knocked. Would the German major bring the child to her? The instructions had seemed so simple:
Enter Germany through Luxembourg over Wasserbillig Bridge. A taxi will be waiting for you there. Bring nothing but your passport and American documents for the child. Treves. Porta Nigra Hotel. A room will be reserved in your name. Wait there.
And so she waited. She had waited for hours. She had not yet cut away the end sheets from the book to remove the child’s identity papers. She would not do so until she had the baby safely in her arms. To be arrested with forged identity documents and no infant to go along with them would be proof of intention to defraud the Reich. The volume of Faust and her passport remained on the night table.
Now it occurred to her that perhaps there was no more German major, no Jewish baby from Warsaw. All this might be an exercise in futility. A German officer determined to risk his safety for the sake of one child might already be tucked away in one of those prisons the Western democracies kept hearing about. If that was the case, she would simply meet the taxi driver in the morning and head back to the Wasserbillig Bridge.
She was about to kick off her shoes and climb onto the bed when soft rapping sounded on the door.
She did not switch on the lamp but stood in the darkness with her hand on the doorknob and her heart beating a tattoo as she remembered the Gestapo agents downstairs. She wondered if her ride through the Siegfried Line had somehow caught up with her.
“Who is it?” she asked stupidly in French.
“Frau Marlow?” The response was whispered, urgent.
She opened the door to the dim blue light of the corridor. A tall, lean German officer pushed past her, shut the door behind him, and snapped the bolt in place. She could not see his face. He did not attempt to turn on the light.
“Horst von Bockman. Guten Abend. Bitte, take off your clothes, Frau Marlow.” He was already unbuttoning his tunic.
“T-take off my—,” she stammered and backed away. Either this was some kind of joke, or the major was drunk. She could see the outline of a bottle in his hand.
“I have been followed,” he said urgently. “Gestapo. Do as I say, Frau Marlow, or we are dead! Take off your clothes and get into bed.” She fumbled at the buttons of her jacket and blouse. He flung his tunic carelessly across the back of a chair and kicked off his shoes, then pulled the blackout curtain tight across the window, mussed his hair, and turned back the sheets. “He may come to this room. You and I have been lovers since Warsaw.”
She obeyed him, stripping to her camisole, and climbed into bed with her skirt on. She pulled the blanket tight around her chin and lay there with her teeth chattering. He left his trousers on and stood barefoot in the center of the room to wait.
The blare of the military march seemed a strange counterpoint to the pounding of her heart. Why had he been tailed?
Only seconds passed before a fist hammered on the thin wood.
“What do you want?” Horst bellowed angrily.
“If you please,” came the polite reply. “A message for you, Herr Officer.”
“I am busy! Go annoy someone else!”
“It is most urgent, I assure you,” the voice whined.
Horst leaned close to Josie. “We met in Poland, you and I. Remember, we are in love.”
Then Horst cursed loudly for the benefit of the intruder and fumbled with the bolt before he opened the door a crack.
Blue light spilled in, followed by the rough shove of a man in a long leather coat. There was an instant of struggle in the blackness. When the light was snapped on, a gun was at the head of Horst von Bockman.
“Well, well. Heil Hitler.” The Gestapo agent beamed at Josie. “Two birds with one stone, it seems.”
“What is the meaning of this?” Horst growled through clenched teeth as the muzzle of the weapon steered him toward a chair and guided him to sit.
“Come now, Major von Bockman.” The dark-eyed man seemed very pleased with himself. “While every other member of my force has been scampering after the great men, I alone have been observing. It was you who arranged for a taxi to be at the Wasserbillig Bridge this morning, was it not? That half-wit of a taxi driver told me everything.”
No use denying the fact, Josie thought.
“So what?” Horst said harshly.
“So, you bring this American woman here through the western defenses. You take me for a fool? She is a spy. And you are a traitor.”
Horst stiffened at the accusation.
The hammer on the pistol clicked back.
“Does this look like we are involved in treason?” Horst waved the brandy bottle clutched in his fist.
The Gestapo agent pivoted to consider Josie, who peered out with wide, terrified eyes at the scene. She attempted to blurt out the words from the impromptu script the major had given her, but she could not speak.
“A little pleasure with your business, Herr Major?” The agent smirked.
“Americans are neutrals, or have you forgotten?” Horst remarked coolly. “And you are taking your idiotic games too far for the approval of the Reich or the Führer or your own superiors.” He gestured toward his tunic, which bore the decoration earned for bravery in Poland. “You call me a traitor? I will see you are shot for this, Herr whatever-your-name-is.”
“Herr Müller,” replied the agent with a click of his heels.
Clearly he would not be easily convinced.
“Then, Herr Müller, I would suggest you remove your weapon from my head and telephone General Rommel to ask his opinion of my loyalty. He is staying in this hotel.”
For the first time Josie saw the fixed smile of Herr Müller twitch with doubt. “The general should not be bothered with matters of security.”
“He will wish to be consulted in a matter so serious; I assure you. A matter involving harassment and false accusations against one of his frontline commanders.”
Müller stepped back from Horst, still keeping the barrel level on his head.
“Shall I call the general then?” Horst demanded.
Müller’s smile vanished. The taint of fear crept into the diminuitive man’s expression. He took another step back.
“Pl
ease summon the general, Herr Müller. I insist you do, unless you wish to be strung up by piano wire. Frau Marlow and I have known one another since Warsaw. You may check that if you wish.” Horst von Bockman’s rebuttal was hard steel and ice, the voice of a leader not to be questioned. “Frau Marlow is an American journalist. She was trapped behind the lines in the siege. We met and have been good friends since that time. Her documents are quite in order.” He reached over and snatched up her passport, opening it to display the visa stamps of Poland, then the Nazi-occupied territories of Poland, after that the Third Reich, and finally the stamp of the customs officials at the Wasserbillig Bridge. “All in order, Herr Müller.”
Horst tossed the passport to Josie. It fell on the bed beside her. She merely nodded. She remained mute.
The Gestapo agent was also struck dumb. He lowered his weapon a fraction; it seemed Horst had defeated him. Then he threw a hard look at Josie’s jacket and blouse. His mouth curved in a half smile. He reached out and tore the blanket off the bed, revealing that Josie was still wearing her skirt and her shoes.
He threw back his head in laughter at the attempted deception. “Very good! I was almost convinced. In quite a rush, Major?” He pressed the gun hard against Josie’s temple. “Get up, Frau Marlow,” he said in a menacing tone. “Gestapo headquarters will be interested to hear you explain that Americans make love with their shoes on. I remain unconvinced, however.” He ogled her form, leering at her as if her obvious terror heightened his own pleasure. “You are both under arrest for espionage and conspiracy against the Reich. Heil Hit—”
The heavy glass of the brandy bottle crashed down on the back of Müller’s skull. The force of the blow propelled him face-first into the wall at the head of the bed. Josie clamped both hands on her mouth to stifle her own scream. The gun flew up in the air and landed on a pillow as Josie rolled across to the opposite side. Müller fell heavily across the bed. His mouth hung limply open and a heavy, sonorous sound rolled from it, as if he were sleeping off drunkenness.
