7.
FABIENNE PARKED THE VAN outside the cottage and sat for a moment to take in the feeling of success.
The deliveries had gone as planned, the men dropped at the safe house, and the vet would provide the necessary certification for the cows after a lengthy inspection later that day. The round trip had taken longer than she’d wanted, and she worried about Mamie coping with the work on her own, but she had to go to the cow shed before arriving for her duties at the house.
She crossed the field, the cows barely acknowledging her as they grazed, and pulled back the corrugated tin panel that served as a door to the shed. Small windowless openings provided sufficient light to spot the three pairs of eyes watching her from the hay loft. She clicked her tongue, and they raised their tiny heads. The black kitten made his way down and sat a short distance from her. She took the van keys from her pocket, knelt and jangled them. He jerked his head backwards and jumped to his feet.
She made a clicking sound, dangling the keys at arm’s length, to encourage him to come to her. “Viens là, viens là,” she said softly. He inched closer. “There you go. I’m not at all scary. Come.”
He touched her hand with his nose, pulled back, then came again and batted the keys with his paw. She stroked him under the chin, and he started to purr. The other two kittens sat on the beam above, watching intently. “You are no rat catcher, but you will be perfect.”
He nudged her hand with his cold nose, then batted her with his paws – razor-sharp claws. She stroked him under his chin, drawing him closer until eventually he nuzzled against her leg, purring loudly. He didn’t try to run away when she lifted him and stared into his green, alert eyes.
“Hello, pretty one,” she said, getting to her feet. She tucked him into her jacket, formed a bridge with one arm underneath him, and turned to leave. She spotted the rusty, sprung trap, partly submerged in mud, close to the wall and picked it up. With a bit of a clean, it should work just fine.
She entered the house though the rear door into the kitchen. Mamie was preparing lunch and didn’t look up as a new soldier came in from the dining room.
“Guten morgen, Herr,” Fabienne said.
He looked her up and down as if she was a piece of shit on the sole of his shoes. “You are late, Fraulein Brun. You must not be late.”
“I am very sorry, Herr—”
“Hauptmann Müller,” Mamie said. She still didn’t look up, and she sounded nervous.
“I’m very sorry, Herr, Hauptmann Müller. Frau Neumann requested some items.” The black kitten clawed her chest. She placed the trap in the sink.
His back was straight, his wide jaw set firmly, and the tip of his nose turned naturally upwards. He had a drinker’s colouration in his cheeks, and she didn’t like the cold stare from his ice-blue eyes.
“Would it be possible to let Frau Neumann know, Hauptmann Müller?”
“Get to work,” he said.
He turned swiftly, and as he left the kitchen Mamie looked at her and raised her eyebrows. “He has been on my back all morning,” she whispered.
“Putain. I’m sorry. The deliveries took longer than expected.”
“All in good condition, I hope.”
Talking in coded sentences had become the norm. “Yes, though the cows seem to be planning to strike.”
“Isn’t that the French way?” Frau Neumann said, entering the kitchen with Astrid.
Fabienne noted the humour in her expression but didn’t reveal her own amusement. “But we are no longer French,” she said.
The sparkle in the German woman’s eyes died, and she gave a thin-lipped smile.
The small verbal victory left Fabienne feeling oddly as though she’d lost more than she’d gained.
“True. So, I hope the cows will not strike.” Frau Neumann’s smile broadened, but the softness of a moment ago had gone. “There’s a leak under the sink in the kommandant’s bathroom that needs to be repaired immediately.”
Fabienne nodded. “We have no solder, but I will try to fix it with putty.”
The kitten meowed.
Frau Neumann raised her eyebrows.
“What is it?” Astrid asked. She stepped towards Fabienne and was held back by her mother.
“You found a cat,” Frau Neumann said.
Fabienne opened the top of her coat and the kitten’s beady eyes stared up at her. “It’s okay, little man,” she whispered. She undid another button. He was clinging to her with his tiny claws and refusing to be lifted. “He’s not a cat, yet.”
“Oh, he’s beautiful,” Astrid said. She looked up at her mother. “Can I stroke him, please, Mutter?”
Frau Neumann let go of her daughter’s shoulder.
Astrid moved closer, her eyes wide and her cheeks rosy. Fabienne crouched down, stroking the kitten to get him to release his grip, and presented him to Astrid. She took him gently into her arms and smiled back at her mother.
“What will you call him?” Fraulein Brun asked.
“Lakritze,” she said. “He looks like lakritze.”
“Réglisse,” Fabienne said, using the French term for liquorice.
Johanna tensed and glanced towards the dining room.
Fraulein Brun tickled the kitten under the chin and stroked his head. “It suits him very well.”
“Because he’s all black.” Astrid said. “I like Léglisse.”
“Réglisse,” Fabienne said, emphasising the ‘r’ sound. Astrid repeated her.
“Lakritze,” Johanna said, correcting them both.
Fabienne nodded. She didn’t want to get Astrid into trouble by teaching her French words.
“I was hoping for a ratter,” Frau Neumann said.
“Ah, well.” Fabienne took the trap from the sink and held it up. “I’ll clean this and put it in the cellar. It will be more effective than…” She looked towards the kitten and shrugged. “He is very cute, and I thought he might be good company for your daughter.” The kitten had put a smile on Frau Neumann’s face too, but Fabienne wasn’t about to point that out.
“Astrid will be thrilled, I’m sure.”
“He should probably stay in for a few days, so he thinks this is his home. I can sort out a crate and put some dirt in it.”
“Can I help?” Astrid asked.
Fabienne addressed Astrid’s mother. “If I find a crate, would Astrid be allowed to fill it from the garden?”
Frau Neumann glanced through to the living room again and stiffened. “I must think about it.”
Astrid looked at her mother, her expression a simple plea, though she didn’t question her.
“Go and find Nanny and somewhere to keep the kitten safe,” she said.
Fabienne waited for the length of time it would take Astrid to walk through to the foyer. “May I go and get the putty from the garage to fix the leak, Frau Neumann, or should I wait for an escort?”
Frau Neumann broke eye contact. “I will tell Hauptmann Müller to wait for you upstairs.”
Fabienne turned off the main water supply, collected the putty and rags from the garage and headed to the kommandant’s bathroom.
Müller was waiting for her. He watched her as she eased her head and shoulders inside the cupboard under the sink, her body and legs sprawled across the floor. The space around the pipe was small and awkward to work in. She dried the pipe, grabbed putty from the jar and lathered it around the weak joint. She reached out from the space to retrieve another dry rag to tie around the putty. There was a thud and then in the same instant, a sharp pain radiated from the back of her hand.
Her automatic response, to rise sharply, caused her to smack her head on the pipework. “Putain de merde.” Her hand and head throbbed.
“Hurry up,” Müller said, and she felt another sharp pain at the crack against her shin.
She wrapped the cloth quickly around the pipe, took hold of the tin of putty and damp rag, and stood up. Her leg, hand and head pulsed with pain.
He smiled.
It took every ounce of her will to not retaliate. “May I go and help Frau Tussaud, Hauptmann Müller?”
He spat into the sink. “Wipe it.”
She did as he said. She waited to be dismissed, biting her tongue and avoiding eye contact.
“Why are you still standing here?” he said.
She walked away and felt a hard blow to her back that thrust her forward. His foot, she suspected.
“Fucking French whore.”
She continued down the stairs without looking back, and into the kitchen.
Mamie glanced up at her from the mixing bowl. Her gaze settled on Fabienne’s abnormally red hand. “Did you fix the leak?” she asked, frowning.
Fabienne tucked her hand behind her back, forgetting the mark that was sure to be blooming on her forehead. She didn’t want Mamie to worry about her, but Mamie’s expression told her it was too late. “It was tricky, but I think so.” She stored the putty and cloth under the sink, cleaned the rattrap, and tested the spring mechanism. “Müller is dangerous,” she whispered. “You must not be alone with him.”
“That’s not easily done, chérie. Let’s hope the sight of me doesn’t antagonise him.”
Fabienne took the trap down to the cellar. There was a hint of ripening cheese, which she hoped they wouldn’t notice. If they questioned the smell, she would blame it on the damp. She placed the trap in a corner away from the wall to the hidden cave. She spotted the stacked drip trays that had been used when they had the barrels of brandy and crème de menthe. They would work as a cat box. She returned to the kitchen with one and headed into the garden.
Müller was standing at the far end of the house, lurking at the edge of the archway. Plumes of smoke drifted in the air as he smoked, his gaze fixed firmly on her. She found the driest earth and filled the tray. The kitten would toss it everywhere, but that couldn’t be helped. She was sure Astrid would find it funny; the nanny, maybe not so much.
By the time she returned to the kitchen, Frau Neumann was waiting for her with Müller at her side. Her heart thundered, though she had no reason to be in trouble, but the Germans didn’t need justification and she could be shot in a heartbeat. “I think this will be fine for the kitten,” she said.
Frau Neumann stared from her hand to her head and frowned. “Is everything okay, Fraulein Brun?”
Fabienne avoided glancing in the officer’s direction and held the woman’s gaze. “The leak was trickier than expected. I hope it is now fixed.”
He smirked and she couldn’t tell whether the glint in his eyes reflected his satisfaction or insanity.
“I’ll take the tray to Astrid,” Frau Neumann said. She walked out of the kitchen.
Müller stood in the doorway until Fabienne got back to work. He may have given her a few bruises to assert himself, but his behaviour was nothing new to her. When the time was right, she would make him beg for his life. Then she would smile at him as he had at her, and she would slit his throat.