24.
FABIENNE HAD KEPT HER distance from Johanna in the three days since their encounter in the cellar while desperate to hold her, protect her and feel comforted by her. She’d watched Johanna from a distance, playing with Astrid, putting on a brave face it seemed. But Fabienne saw the hurt, and her heart ached because she had been the one to cause it. She should have told Johanna how she felt.
The truth was as blinding as the sun. Whether she admitted to being in love or not, if she lost Johanna her heart would break into thousands of tiny shards, and she wouldn’t recover from the devastation.
Why did loving Johanna make her feel so vulnerable? In the past, she would have been happy for the company and enjoyed whatever the encounter would offer. With Johanna, it wasn’t just an encounter. She had allowed herself to get close, all the while knowing this thing between them was too powerful for her to control. She’d fallen willingly and hopelessly in love. But until the war was over, there was little she could do about it. Firstly, they had to survive. Then, they could talk.
Mamie ladled stew onto the plates for Nanny, Schmidt and Hauptmann Müller. She set two plates on the table with a basket of bread.
“I will take his dinner in.” Fabienne put the third plate on a tray. It had been a week since he’d eaten the mushrooms and four days since he’d taken to his bed. Johanna had said he seemed to be improving, but Fabienne couldn’t take the risk that he might recover enough to start work again. “I doubt that he’ll eat it.” She walked through the house and into the annex, knocked on Müller’s door and entered without waiting for him to respond.
He moaned something unintelligible.
“I have your food.”
She approached his bed and put the tray on the side table. He was pale, his cheeks gaunt, his eyes sunken into dark hollows. He was smaller, reedier. He was fading away. But not quickly enough. The fever had abated. If the mushrooms were going to do their job now, it would be weeks while they attacked his kidneys, maybe months or even years. She didn’t have the time for that, and she had a promise to keep to Madame.
She perched on the side of the bed. He tried to move to stop her, but like a leaf on a breeze his arm fell under its own weight, and he huffed out a weary breath. “What do you want?”
Though his tone lacked the fiery anger, he spat the words like a floored boxer trying to throw a punch from the ground.
“How does helplessness feel, Herr Hauptmann?” Fabienne smiled.
He tried to raise his hand to her again, but she pushed him away as easily as flicking a matchstick. He tried to lift his head and she laughed.
“I will kill you,” he said.
Fabienne put her hand on his chest and with little effort pinned him to the bed. “I don’t think so, Herr Hauptmann.” He tried to resist and failed, gave up, exhausted. “You see, you are dying, and I am not.”
“Get out of my room.”
She picked up the pillow at the side of his head and held it in her lap, patted it. “Did you know this house was built in the late 1700s?” She glanced around and up at the high, hand-painted ceilings. “It’s a work of art. Do you like art, Herr Müller? Something tells me probably not. You don’t have the intelligence to appreciate the finer qualities.” He resisted again and she pushed him down. “This annex was where the servants of guests stayed. You are a servant, Herr Hauptmann, only you serve no one except yourself.”
She watched fear register in his eyes. Anger bubbled inside her and she had to curb herself from losing complete control and beating him to death. There couldn’t be any blood, not even the sign of a struggle, no bruises to show. “How does it feel knowing for sure that you will soon take your last breath? You should be grateful. When mushroom poisoning takes a hold, which it has already, it gets very painful.”
He tried to move, to get out of bed, and she pushed him back down.
“I was hoping it would be a swift end, but you didn’t eat enough soup and I don’t have time to waste.”
He shook his head and opened his mouth as if to speak, shout out or scream. She didn’t give him the chance. She pressed the pillow over his head and leaned her weight on top of him. He made one small effort to push her off, then kicked his legs, but without power. She held the pillow in place until he stopped moving.
He looked peaceful, asleep. She ate a few mouthfuls of stew, pressed her fingers to his neck to be sure there wasn’t a pulse and exited the room with the tray. Straight into the path of Herr Schmidt.
“Guten abend, Fraulein Brun.” He clicked his heels and smiled.
Fabienne jolted. She hadn’t realised he was in his room and hoped he hadn’t heard anything. She had kept her voice low, and the walls were solid. “Guten abend, Herr Schmidt.”
He indicated towards the bedroom door, and she stepped in front of it in case he was thinking of checking in on Müller.
“How is Herr Hauptmann?”
She held the tray out in front of her, her heart racing like a train. “He is tired and not eating much, but his fever seems to have lifted.”
“That’s good news.” He sniffed. “It smells delicious.”
“Yes. Your dinner is ready for you in the kitchen.”
“Excellent. I’m starving.”
Fabienne knew of people who were starving, and Schmidt wasn’t one of them. She followed him back through the house to the kitchen. Johanna was waiting, though she didn’t smile or hold Fabienne’s gaze.
Fabienne put the tray on the side and went to the kitchen sink, so that Johanna couldn’t see she was blushing. She had to grip her feelings towards Johanna, or she would be the one to give them away.
“You two can leave now,” Johanna said to her and Mamie.
Fabienne cleared the plate and wiped down the kitchen, avoiding eye contact with Johanna then exited through the back door. She breathed the fresh air deeply into her lungs to calm her racing heart.
Mamie took a breath as if about to speak to Fabienne as they walked across the yard.
“Don’t ask,” Fabienne said. She didn’t want to talk about Müller or her deepening attraction to Johanna.
Fabienne left Mamie preparing their dinner in the cottage and headed into town.
Three people exited the church as she entered. She sat at a pew, bowed her head and prayed for Johanna and Astrid, Mamie and Nancy. She asked God what she should do about their budding relationship and waited for a response. When none came, she headed to the confessional.
“Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned. It has been a month since my last confession.”
“Good evening, my child. How have you sinned?” Father Paul said.
Fabienne would have had plenty to confess under normal circumstances. She had coveted another man’s wife and murdered a German officer, but neither were the reason she was here, and neither felt like a sin. Müller wasn’t human: he was a wild and dangerous animal, and the only way to stop him had been to put him down.
“My grandfather is taking a trip to Dijon,” she said.
“It’s a beautiful place, with a fine mustard that goes perfectly with a good rib of beef. Maybe after the war, I’ll take a trip there. When is he travelling?”
Fabienne smiled. The thought of a good steak made her mouth water. She looked forward to the time they could sit out of an evening enjoying dinner without curfew or guards watching their every move. “The second of June.”
“It should be good weather by then.”
She turned her attention back to the message. “He tells me he has something to attend to at nine-thirty p.m. Though he didn’t specify the details. He doesn’t talk much these days. The war has addled his mind.”
“I see. How delightful a warm summer’s evening will feel. God will make sure he comes to no harm. Now, how about you, my child, are you well?”
Fabienne thought about Johanna and blushed. She lowered her head and toyed with her hands in her lap. “I am well. I wanted to ask about the swallows.”
Father Paul cleared his throat. “Yes, the wind has changed direction, making the route too difficult to navigate. They are going to need to nest here until the weather changes.”
“When is that forecast?”
Father Paul inhaled deeply. “God works in mysterious ways, my child. It would be prudent to assume they might spend the summer here.”
The sixteen children they were referring to wouldn’t be able to stay in the cellar for two or three months. They would have to find an alternative arrangement. If the routes south to Switzerland were blocked, it would also be difficult to move Esther, though she was in no fit state to go anywhere yet. “I need antibiotics, Father.”
“I will see what I can do. Father Michel may be able to help.”
Fabienne rubbed her eyes. She slumped forward and held her head in her hands. “I am tired.”
“God will give you the strength you need. There are rumours that great strides are being made in the north, Fabienne. Have faith. Your people need you.”
“And how do I help my grandfather get to Dijon?”
“You take care of the swallows. I will look after your grandfather.”
“But I have to help.”
“You have done enough, Fabienne. God will take care of the rest.”
Fabienne sat up, leaned backwards, and gazed at the arched wooden ceiling of the confessional. God had his hands full, that was certain. She wished she’d had more information to give Father Paul about Operation Dijon. Even if he had known about it, he wasn’t going to tell her. She had been given her instructions, and she would follow them to the letter. The problem of hosting the children for weeks needed her attention, as did the collection of Esther’s new papers.
She exited the church and headed to the bistro to meet up with Louis Bertrand.
A couple of Wehrmacht soldiers were playing cards at a table. Other than that, the bar was empty. Edith Piaf was singing on the radio. The barman poured a shot of brandy and handed it to Fabienne along with an envelope. She pocketed the envelope and sat down at a table, allowed herself to relax a little as she sipped the warming liquid. Bertrand entered the bar, ordered a beer and came to her table.
He indicated to the seat next to her, and she acknowledged his silent request.
They sat quietly, drinking, Fabienne pondering Father Paul’s remark about the progress being made in the north. After all the years at war, it seemed almost inconceivable that one day it would end. Like a light in the distance, barely a flicker, a tease. You cannot reach it and it doesn’t appear any brighter with time. You just have to hope and to keep moving in a direction that you believe will lead you there.
“Do you think we are winning?” she asked.
Bertrand smiled with his eyes. There was a mellowness in him she hadn’t seen before. “I heard the allies are bombing German military bases along the French coast. Rumours are that there is going to be an offensive that will destroy the German army. It won’t be long now.”
The news might be part fact, part optimism, but it was reassuring to see that he believed they were winning. She glanced towards the soldier’s playing cards. They were laughing and talking amongst themselves, and it didn’t look like they were eavesdropping.
“We have another mission,” she said in a quiet voice.
The hardness returned to his eyes. “What is it?”
“We need to host sixteen children for a while.”
He blew out through his teeth and took a long slug of beer. His appearance softened again. He took out a cigarette, offered her one, and lit both. “When? For how long?”
She drew down. “Twenty-seventh of May. Maybe months. The routes south are blocked.”
He scratched his head, ran his fingers through the stubble on his chin. “I heard the Germans are taking up new positions all the time, closing routes. Twelve men and two guides were shot crossing the Alps last week.”
Fabienne finished her drink. “Then the children will have to stay here until it’s safe.”
He flicked his cigarette, and ash tumbled to the floor. “That might not be until the end of the war.”
She turned her glass as it sat on the table. “Then, we had better hope that time comes sooner rather than later.”
He took a slug of beer. “Will they have new papers?”
Fabienne hoped they would arrive with new identity documents, but she couldn’t be sure of anything until she saw them. “If they don’t, we will have to get them.”
He shook his head and cursed under his breath. “It’s risky. We need to find families who can take them, and there will be no additional rations.”
She tapped her glass on the table. “You want another?”
He pushed his glass towards her. “I need one to help me think.”
She went to the bar and ordered another round of drinks. Three Frenchmen entered, workers from the dairy. They acknowledged each other with a nod of their head, and she went back to the table to talk through names of people they knew who might be willing to give a home to a child.
***
Gerhard had arrived home on time and in a reasonably good mood, though complaining of a slight headache. They had eaten in silence, and he had gone to his room early.
Johanna sat on her bed and stared at the letter on her bedside table he’d brought back for her. Her hand trembled as she picked it up. The handwriting wasn’t either her mother’s or her son’s, and she dreaded discovering the contents of the message. It could only be about her mother. If it had been anything to do with Ralf, Gerhard would have been informed before her.
She opened the envelope hesitantly, her fingers moving clumsily, and drew out the thin piece of paper. Her heart thundered and blood pulsed in her ears such that she couldn’t think and could barely focus on the words.
My Dearest Johanna,
I hope you are safe and well during this horrid time. Your mother is doing better now.
Johanna dropped the letter in her lap and cupped her mouth. Tears flooded her cheeks as she processed the good news. Thank God she was still alive, but what had happened such that she was doing better now? She took a deep breath and continued to read.
Aunty had a stroke just before Christmas, and this has affected her ability to write, though she is otherwise improving daily. She came to stay with me in Heilbronn and will be here until after the war since Berlin is unsafe, and in any event, she cannot be left on her own. My address is below, she would love to hear from you as would I.
Your loving cousin,
Gretta
Heilbronn wasn’t far from Stuttgart, and Stuttgart was close to Strasbourg. Mutter was about a three-hour drive away. Johanna had the urge to drive there to see her, and bring her back to the house. To do what? Even if she asked Gerhard to have her mother picked up, Johanna couldn’t be taking care of her here. Not now. Mutter was safer in Heilbronn than in Berlin, and given Johanna’s involvement with Fabienne’s Resistance activities, it was better that she stayed put until after the war. Then Mutter could come and stay with Johanna, wherever that may be.
She folded the letter, put it in her top drawer, and went to bed. She recalled the scene in the cellar, Fabienne not admitting that she loved Johanna, and she tossed and turned. Johanna had been with Gerhard long enough to know the difference in a kiss. No one kissed with such tenderness and passion unless their heart was in it.
Damn Fabienne for not saying the words.