Love in the Shadows

18.

FABIENNE WINCED AT THE blinding pain in her arm as Frau Neumann helped her to the cottage door. She caught the headlights approaching from the road and pushed Johanna closer to the line of the building, holding her still until the vehicle veered left into the driveway of the house. The car came to a stop in the light that spilled out from the front door onto the gravel. Even though she knew it would be hard for them to be seen, her heart pounded as hard as it had done during the rescue mission. Johanna breathed heavily at her side.

The sound of male voices and heels clicking was their cue to move. Fabienne opened the door enough for them to slip inside, and eased the door closed behind them. She went to the window and peeked through the heavy curtains. The car passed around the fountain in the driveway and started back towards the main road.

The front door closed.

She leaned against the wall, closed her eyes, and breathed deeply until her heart slowed. When she opened them, even in the low, lamp light, she could see Frau Neumann was wide-eyed and pale-faced. “What?” she said, in a firmer tone than was warranted since the kommandant’s wife had potentially saved her life. She tried to move, and her legs drained of energy. The fire in her arm flared. Her vision clouded. The room spun.

“You’re bleeding.”

Fabienne shook her head and staggered to regain her balance. “You must go.”

Even if she could tell Frau Neumann about the mission, she wouldn’t be able to find the words to describe the terrifying scene: women screaming, children crying, whistles sounding, machine guns mowing down people like blades of grass, more screaming, and then the haunting silence. It would have been a hundred times worse without the mist, or if the train had made it to the station and the Germans had been able to get there sooner. The train having stopped short of the station had been an error that had served the Resistance and the prisoners well. How many would survive? Only time would tell.

Frau Neumann helped her to the couch to sit.

Fabienne lowered her head between her knees to stave off the nausea and dizziness. The pain in her arm soared and, in her attempt to stifle a cry, she whimpered.

Frau Neumann eased her back and started to unbutton her coat. She wanted to resist but her body wouldn’t comply. The coat was slipped from her shoulders, and the pain surged. She moaned and tried to hold her arm, but her hand was raw from trying to dig the earth, her fingers swollen and tight. Frau Neumann lifted her hand gently and inspected it slowly. Fabienne was compelled to stare at her, locked into the compassion in Frau Neumann’s eyes and the tenderness of her touch. She felt the sadness rising from deep inside, the loss and grief of so many people, and swallowed hard to stem the tears building behind her eyes.

“Do you have sulfa powder and cloths so I can dress your wounds?”

Fabienne indicated to the front door. “I can sort myself out. You need to get back to the kommandant. He will be waiting for you.”

“Gerhard has plenty to occupy him for the rest of the night, don’t you think?”

Fabienne lowered her head.

“Your injuries are not from taking your cousin to the doctor, which would have happened more than three hours ago had it happened at all.”

Fabienne sighed and looked up. Understanding passed between them, and the sorrow and tiredness combined to drain her last ounce of energy. She slumped back in the couch and closed her eyes.

“Where will I find sulfa powder and a cloth?”

“We don’t have sulfa. There should be some warm water in the kettle on the stove, and salt in the pot on the table. Cloths are under the sink. The kitchen is through the door behind us.”

She felt a slight breeze cross her face as Frau Neumann stood up, but her eyes refused to open to check.

Memories of the evening taunted her with their vividness, and she trembled. There had been soldiers everywhere. The prisoners they’d recaptured, they’d executed. God knew how many had died already. It would have been many more had it not been for the weather, but still it was too many. And tomorrow they would execute more innocent people in retribution for the dead German soldiers.

She felt wretched, and useless. Her head ached, her arm throbbed, and she’d lost the sensation in her hands and fingers. Was all this death a price worth paying in the fight for freedom?

Frau Neumann came into the room. She pulled the table lamp closer to inspect Fabienne’s arm. “You need to take your shirt off,” she said.

She smelled of wine and cigarettes and a light perfume, and Fabienne was sure desire flashed in her eyes when she looked at Fabienne. Frau Neumann started to unbutton the shirt. Fabienne tried to stop her, and the pain stilled her. Frau Neumann took Fabienne’s trembling hand and helped her to lower it with such tenderness that the movement was as intimate as a first kiss.

“You can trust me,” Frau Neumann whispered.

Fabienne leaned forward so her shirt could be removed. Frau Neumann’s breath caressed her cheek, and she turned towards the warmth. Frau Neumann’s mouth was so close, so tempting. Urgency compelled her to kiss her without consideration for the consequences. Just to feel the softness of her lips. Desire coursed through her veins. All she wanted was to feel alive when so many people around her had died. She was convinced she wasn’t alone in her longing for that connection, but she was in no fit state to trust her judgement about anything, let alone this.

“My name is Fabienne,” she whispered.

Frau Neumann’s attention was fixed on her arm. “Well, Fabienne. This is going to hurt.” She pressed the damp cloth to the wound.

The pain struck her like lightning. Fabienne gritted her teeth and moaned.

“My name is Johanna.” Frau Neumann smiled.

Fabienne studied her. She didn’t want to feel this way. She couldn’t. These feelings made her vulnerable, open, afraid. Afraid of what? Of losing someone else that mattered. What was the point in having feelings for someone like Johanna? God, how she wanted to kiss her. She flinched at the sharp pain as Johanna continued to clean the wound.

“You have a pretty name,” Fabienne said. Her voice sounded thick with emotion. She cleared her throat.

Johanna glanced up at her. “And you have been shot.”

Fabienne would have laughed had she not been in such agony. “I know, I was there.”

“You’re lucky. It looks like it’s just a flesh wound. I’ll need to stitch it.”

Fabienne shook her head. “It hurts like hell for just a flesh wound.”

Johanna sighed, the hint of a smile tugging at her lips. “Where will I find a needle and thread?”

Fabienne tried to breathe deeply to control the pain, but the best she could do was short, sharp, panting breaths. “In the cupboard to the right above the sink, there is a box.”

Johanna stood up. “Can you keep bathing it?”

The cloth stung the split skin on her fingers, but she held the cloth to the gash in her arm and leaned back in the couch.

Johanna returned and sat next to her.

“I forgot to ask how your evening went,” Fabienne said.

Johanna frowned as she looked again at the wound. “I think you’re going to need something before I do this. Or maybe I do.” She smiled at Fabienne as she held the threaded needle up.

“There is brandy in the first cupboard on the left.”

Johanna returned with the bottle and two glasses. She poured them both a large shot.

Fabienne slugged the drink in one hit and held out her glass for it to be refilled. “As you can see, my night hasn’t gone so well.”

Johanna refilled the glass and took a sip from her own drink. Then she threaded the needle through Fabienne’s skin.

“Aghh, putain, that is worse than being shot!” She tried not to pull against Johanna, and tensed. “Putain, putain, putain!”

“Do you always swear a lot, Fabienne?” Johanna smiled as she inserted the needle to make another stitch.

“Only when I’m being stitched up by someone.” She moaned.

Johanna laughed. “Only three more to go.”

Fabienne tried to tug her arm from Johanna’s grip, but Johanna refused to let go. “Arghh, can we just leave it? I don’t care if it scars.”

“No, we can’t. The risk of infection is high enough without walking around with a gaping wound.”

Fabienne knew that. “I need another drink.”

Johanna filled her glass and stared at her while she drank. How Fabienne would like to know what thoughts passed through her mind. It was clear she wasn’t going to talk about her evening, not that Fabienne had expected her to. Fabienne released a low cry as Johanna started on another stitch. And then darkness closed in around her, and she heard glass shatter.

She was lying on the couch when she opened her eyes, Johanna in the seat across from her. Fabienne’s Browning pistol was on the coffee table between them. Johanna’s eyes were closed, and with her fair hair and pale skin catching in the low light, she looked like an angel. Fabienne tried to sit up too quickly. Her head spun, and the pain flared up.

Johanna opened her eyes and sat forward.

Fabienne focused on the weapon. “What time is it?”

Johanna looked at her watch. “Four thirty-five. You passed out, which is hardly surprising.” She got to her feet.

Fabienne lurched forward to grab the gun and was halted by the pain. She slumped back.

Johanna picked the weapon up and came to the couch. “The wound is stitched. But if you keep trying moves like that, you will bust them. I’ll give your grandmother some sulfa powder and a proper bandage later. I don’t expect to see you at the house until you’re fit.” She took the gun by the barrel and held it out to Fabienne. “You’ll want to hide this well.”

Fabienne took the weapon and set it on the couch next to her, feeling a fool for doubting Johanna’s intentions. If she’d wanted Fabienne dead, she wouldn’t have saved her from the officers. She winced at the burning in her arm and hands. Her head pounded. “What about Hauptmann Müller?”

“I’ll deal with him, and my husband. It would be no surprise if you’d caught whatever it was that made your cousin sick.” She smiled conspiratorially.

Fabienne eased herself up to sit. “Please, don’t let Müller near Mamie.”

Johanna put her hand on Fabienne’s thigh. The effect was electric, warm and inviting, and stirred arousal. “I’ll watch out for your grandmother, Fabienne.” She removed her hand. “You can trust me.”

Fabienne missed the contact that every cell inside her had been awoken by and now desperately needed. “It’s not that simple though, is it?”

Johanna lowered her head and sighed. “I detest the war and everything my country now stands for. It’s not the Germany that I knew and loved. I want to go home, but only because I want things to be as they were. They are not, though, and they never will be, and I know I’m holding onto the illusion because it’s all I have. I dread the reality that we will have to face. The Reich have stolen my son, my career, my friends and my husband. They have taken everything that was precious to me and made it either ugly or unrecognisable. And I abhor that the people my husband serves take such sick pleasure in the absolute destruction of others.”

Fabienne wanted to hold her close and claim the kiss she knew they both longed for.

Johanna shook her head as she continued. “War makes people suspicious. We forget what it is to care and to love. Hate and segregation and fear will turn us inside out if we don’t learn who to trust. It’s not in our nature to live in isolation, Fabienne. We need each other.”

Fabienne didn’t know if she was talking literally or metaphorically. “How do you live with yourself, knowing what is happening and not doing anything about it?” Johanna winced as if slapped. “That was not intended as an accusation.”

“You’re right though.” She held Fabienne’s gaze. “I don’t have the power to change the war.” She stared intently at Fabienne. “Unlike you.”

Fabienne held out her hand, and Johanna took it. “You can do more than you think,” Fabienne whispered.

Johanna traced the marked skin lightly with her fingertip. “I’m not brave like you,” she said, her voice broken.

Fabienne tried to squeeze, but her fingers refused to comply. “You are here. You are braver than you believe, Johanna.”

Johanna looked up at the use of her name. Her eyelids were heavy, her eyes glassy with unshed tears. There was so much she wasn’t saying that Fabienne wanted to hear.

“I assume you will be okay getting yourself to bed?” Johanna said. She released a sigh that spoke of resignation, and stood up slowly.

“I’ll be fine,” Fabienne said, though she didn’t feel at all fine.

Johanna started towards the front door.

“There is a spare set of keys to your house on the rack there.” Fabienne pointed to the wall to the right of the door. “I imagine all the doors will be locked.”

Johanna held her gaze.

“And who do you trust, Johanna?” Fabienne leaned back in the couch.

“I don’t know. I’m still working that out.” Johanna smiled wearily.

Fabienne didn’t look up as she said what she needed to say. “The train was carrying hundreds of Jews to the work camps: women, children, babies. No one is coming back from the camps, Johanna. There are rumours coming from Radio Londres about what is happening to these prisoners. It is worse than evil. I tried to bury a dead infant this evening, but the ground was too hard. Jacob was his name. His mother was pregnant. He had been dead long before we…”

She held up her trembling hands and stared at her cut-and-swollen fingers. “I left him in the root of a tree.” She looked up and held Johanna’s gaze. “I don’t know if his mother or if any of them will make it to safety, but we had to try and do something.”

Johanna looked away, rubbed her eyes, took the keys, and slipped out the front door.

Fabienne leaned her head back and closed her eyes. Tears found their way effortlessly onto her cheeks.