CHAPTER 24 - LILLE, FRANCE—JANUARY 14, 1917 #2
“Sir, how is the development of the sulfur mustard weapon coming along?” Bruno asked, hoping to change the subject to something other than his tardiness.
Haber’s brows softened. “Gut. The agent, which we hoped would create severe chemical burns, as well as bleeding and blistering within the respiratory system, is turning out to be far more potent than we expected.”
A burn rose in Bruno’s esophagus. He swallowed and said, “That is good news, sir.”
“I want you to launch its use in July.”
“It will be a privilege.”
A slim smile formed on Haber’s face.
“Have you selected a site to use the mustard gas?”
Haber placed his fingertips together. “Ypres.”
Where we conducted the first gas attack.
A memory of a green chlorine cloud, floating over no-man’s-land and asphyxiating hundreds in its path, surged inside Bruno’s brain.
He gripped the arms of his chair, attempting to hide his disgust. “You’ve put much thought into selecting the location.
I have no doubts that the new agent will be a success, and I appreciate you keeping me informed. ”
“You’re welcome, Bruno, but that’s not why I’ve summoned you.”
He leaned forward.
“It has come to my attention that you’ve become reckless,” Haber said.
Bruno’s shoulder muscles tightened.
“Is it true that you attempted to reach the front line in the midst of a heavy enemy bombardment?”
Bruno shifted in his seat. He knows. “That is correct, sir. I had been trying to reach Artillery General Kainz to persuade him to use gas shells, rather than solely rely on high-explosives. It turned out that the general was not at a front-line dugout, where I was told he would be.”
“Do you wish to die?” Haber asked.
“Nein, sir.”
“Then act like it,” Haber said firmly.
“Ja, sir.”
Haber swirled the wine in his glass. “I need you to remain alive. You’re needed to launch my new weapon, which will put fear into our enemy and lead the empire to victory.”
Bruno nodded.
“You have much to live for, Bruno. Your vater is becoming enormously wealthy from his supply contracts for the Imperial German Army. After the war, you’ll have a prestigious position at Wahler Farbwerke, and you’ll have a luxurious life.”
Unless we are convicted and hung for war crimes, Bruno thought.
“I want you to stay in Lille to oversee the distribution of phosgene shells until you begin your military leave,” Haber said. “Get some rest in Germany. When you return to the front, your mind and body will be refreshed to execute the next stage of Germany’s chemical warfare.”
“I’ll be ready, sir,” Bruno said.
“Gut.” Haber drained his wine and looked at Bruno. “Out of curiosity, were you able to influence the general to increase the use of gas?”
“Ja,” Bruno said. “The ratio of gas to high-explosive shells is one in three.”
Haber stood and placed a hand on Bruno’s shoulder. “Well done.”
“Danke,” Bruno said, struggling to contain his repulsion from Haber’s touch.
Haber retrieved his coat from the back of his chair and left.
Bruno, relieved for Haber to be gone, drew a deep breath and exhaled.
He retrieved an extra glass that had been placed on the table and filled it with white wine.
He gulped it down, barely noticing its rich, fruity taste, and then refilled the glass.
For several minutes he sipped Haber’s wine and waited for the alcohol to deaden his pain.
Celeste, carrying a cup with rising steam, entered the parlor. “Am I disturbing you?”
“Nein,” Bruno said, slumped in his chair.
“Tea.” She placed the cup in front of him. “It might make you feel better than the wine.”
He straightened his back and looked at her. “Danke.”
“Will you be staying?” she asked.
“Ja.”
“I’m glad.” She tucked loose strands of hair behind her ears. “Would you like me to prepare you something to eat?”
“Maybe later.” As he lifted the cup, his hand trembled, spilling tea on his tunic. He put down the drink and brushed his clothing. “Sorry. My nerves are frayed.”
“It’s all right.” Using a napkin from the table, she gently dabbed his clothing.
His eyes met hers.
She paused, resting her hand on his chest.
He clasped the napkin, but instead of taking it, his fingers gravitated to hers. His heartbeat quickened.
She moved closer, her knee touching his leg.
While seated, he placed his hands on her hips, then slid his palms to the base of her back. Pulling her to him, he placed his cheek to her breastbone.
“You’re safe here,” she said softly.
He drew a breath, taking in a scent of lilac perfume. Her heartbeat fluttered beneath his ear.
She gently ran her fingers through the back of his hair.
He squeezed her, feeling their bodies mold together.
I cannot do this, he tried to convince himself.
But his mind and heart—tired and ravaged—desperately desired comfort, regardless of the ramifications.
I’ll be different after the war, he resolved within himself.
He stood, his hands gliding over the back of her dress.
Their lips met, and his pain slipped away.
* * *
On Bruno’s seventh consecutive morning of staying in the boardinghouse, he rolled over in bed to the warmth of Celeste.
Under a dull glow of predawn light, coming from a gap between the curtains, he watched her chest slowly rise and fall with the rhythm of her breath.
Unlike previous days, when he would work at the ammunition depot and spend evenings with Celeste, today would be the end of their time together.
In a few hours, he would depart for his two-week military leave in Oldenburg, Germany.
A strange mixture of guilt and indebtedness churned inside him.
His time with Celeste had eased his trepidation and helped him forget, although temporarily, about the wicked acts he’d committed on behalf of Haber and the Imperial German Army.
Each of the past several evenings they’d slept together in his room.
But their intimacy was far more than physical pleasure, Bruno believed, considering it was their conversations that had kept them awake until the early hours of the morning.
They’d talked of the past, and they’d discussed what they wanted their lives to be like after the war, even though they both knew that they would take divergent paths.
And each night, under the glow of candlelight, Celeste read aloud Alcools, a collection of poems by Guillaume Apollinaire.
Initially, she’d translated the French to German for him, but he preferred her to recite it in French, so he could get lost in the cadence and timbre of her voice.
He’d grown close to Celeste. She was kind, understanding, and beautiful.
What they had, Bruno believed, was more than companionship but less than devotion.
Bruno caressed Celeste’s bare shoulder with his thumb.
She stirred and opened her eyes. “Good morning,” she whispered.
“How did you sleep?” he asked.
“Well.” She rolled to him, nuzzling her head to his chest.
He pressed his lips to her hair.
“I have something I’d like to ask you before you leave.”
“All right.”
“Do you love her?”
He drew a breath. “I do.”
She ran a finger over his chest, as if she were tracing his ribs. “Will you remember me?”
He sat up and looked into her eyes. “Forever.”
They embraced, their foreheads touching together. She kissed him on the cheek, and then slipped out of bed.
“Come downstairs,” she said, putting on her dress. “I’ll make you breakfast before you leave for the train station.”
He nodded.
She slipped on her shoes and left the room, closing the door behind her.
Bruno climbed out of bed. He quickly dressed, packed his leather case, and went downstairs, all the while hoping to gain a few more minutes of time with her. He entered the kitchen to the sound of meat sizzling in a hot iron skillet. A scent of frying bacon filled his nose.
“It smells good,” he said, approaching her.
She turned and pressed a hand to her stomach.
“Are you all right?”
Her face went pale. She cupped a hand to her mouth and dashed to the sink, where she leaned over and vomited.
“May I help?”
“Leave me,” she said. “I’ll be fine.”
Ignoring her plea, he placed a hand on her back, feeling her muscles contract as her stomach heaved.
She took in several deep breaths, and her body relaxed. Celeste, her eyes bloodshot, stood and faced him.
Bruno retrieved a dish towel and handed it to her.
She wiped her mouth.
Bruno swallowed. “How long have you been feeling ill?”
Her hands trembled. “The past three mornings.”
He clasped her fingers. “Are you—”
Celeste’s eyes welled with tears. “I think I’m pregnant.”