16. Angelique
October 1943
France
Hazel laughs and straightens the yellow picnic blanket on the grass. It’s been in our family for as long as I can remember. The edges are frayed, and we’ve had to patch up holes in it on more than one occasion. Around us, the hum of bees fills the air.
Giggles float from the other side of the hill, and two little girls with light-blond plaits skip into view. Both are wearing daisy crowns perched precariously on their heads.
The hum of the bees grows louder, more insistent.
Hazel’s laughter is cut short, and she looks up at the sky. “Girls, get down,” she screams and jumps to her feet.
She races to them as my eyes are drawn to the Luftwaffe planes flying towards us.
An icy wave sweeps through me, and I shiver uncontrollably. I attempt to stand, but my legs won’t cooperate.
The peace from a moment ago is shattered by the loud drone of engines, the rat-ta-ta-ta of machine guns, the girls’ screams, the panicked symphony of my heartbeat.
Bullets hit the ground. Dirt and grass and clover explode into the air. I reach out to the girls, but there is nothing I can do. Hazel and our daughters slump to the ground as if they are nothing more than discarded dolls.
I scream. And scream and scream. And shiver. Why am I so cold?
My nightmare fades, and I slowly become aware of the ache consuming my body. My head throbs. My hand throbs. Everything inside me throbs.
One eyelid flutters open. The other eyelid can barely move more than a fraction of an inch. I’m met by darkness and the smell of mould.
I’m not on the floor. That much I can tell. But the fabric under me isn’t much better. It’s rough and scratchy and doesn’t smell of warmth. It smells of danger and death and hopelessness.
I cautiously push to sit with the hand that doesn’t feel as if a tank drove over it. A rush of dizziness assaults me, and nausea tries to force me to lie down again.
My non-injured hand goes to my belly and the child growing there. My body might be aching, but I haven’t lost my baby. Not yet, anyway. I take the lack of stickiness between my legs as a good sign.
A relieved breath escapes me, even though there is nothing to be relieved about. I didn’t give Christian and Krüger the information they want, which means they won’t give up trying to get it from me.
I cannot see my hand, but I can tell it’s broken and swollen and bloodied. I cradle it to my body and lean back against the wall.
I blink away the forming tears. They won’t do me any good. They won’t heal the wound. They won’t take me away from here. They’re just a waste of energy.
Sounds begin to seep into my awareness: the distant crying, perhaps from one prisoner; the groaning of another; the scurrying of tiny claws on stone. The latter noise is closer than I would like. I swiftly lift my feet onto the filthy mattress.
Faint light from the half moon spills through the barred windows, and my eyes slowly adjust to the darkness. Except there is nothing to see other than the bed and the metal door opposite the window.
Exhaustion ebbs and flows through me. I fight to keep my good eye open, but it proves to be too much. I succumb to the battle, my eyelids falling shut.
* * *
I joltawake from a new nightmare. Or perhaps it’s the same one that has been repeating in my head from the moment I arrived. I don’t know how long I’ve been sleeping, but the lazy fingers of dawn have since visited. A light wash of blue stretches beyond the barred window.
My head and body hurt, and I cannot bend my fingers of the injured hand due to the swelling and excruciating pain. My mouth is drought dry, and overwhelming nausea still keeps me company.
German male voices approach from the other side of the door. I cannot make out what they are saying. Something about taking the prisoner to Avenue Foch for interrogation, and that he has papers authorizing the move.
My cell door opens, and two soldiers enter. One is taller and broader in his chest and shoulders. The other is long and lanky. My vision is blurry. I cannot make out their faces.
“Can she walk?” the taller soldier asks. Recognition stirs at the sound of his voice, but the pounding in my head makes it difficult to figure out why.
“She wasn’t able to when they brought her in yesterday.” The other soldier sounds bored. “Do you have handcuffs for her?”
“From the looks of it, she doesn’t need them. She barely looks like she can walk, never mind run.”
The shorter soldier makes an amused sound. “French women are only good horizontal, anyway.”
The taller, broad-shouldered soldier doesn’t respond.
My vision slowly clears a little more. The shorter soldier approaches the bed, grabs the wrist of my damaged hand, and drags me to my feet. A vicious pain shoots through my hand and wounded leg. My vision flashes white and a half gasp, half shriek escapes me.
Forty-eight hours.That is all I have to last for, without saying a word, to keep everyone safe.
I have no idea how long I was passed out for. Have no idea how many hours I have left before I reach that number.
“She cannot leave here without handcuffs.” The shorter soldier’s breath is as foul as his disposition. His hand remains tightly clasped around my injured wrist, and I bite back a whimper.
The taller soldier produces the required handcuffs and steps into my line of vision. I gasp.
Johann’s indifferent gaze flicks to me. The man I love is gone. In his place, is the enemy.
It’s not him.I’ve seen Johann pretend to be something he isn’t in front of other officers. It’s how he has survived in the military for as long as he has. This level of indifference…it’s not Johann. He loves me. I know he does. I’ve seen how he looks at me. That was not pretend.
Hope. That’s all I have left. Hope that I am right. Hope that Johann is here to save me, to save his child.
Because without hope, I have nothing left to keep my heart beating. Nothing left to ensure my baby and I make it through the war.
“Hands behind you,” Johann says to me in French, his voice crisp, harsh. There’s nothing in his tone that reminds me of the man I love.
It’s not really him. It’s not my Johann.
The shorter soldier yanks my hands into position before I can brace myself for the pain, and I am unable to stop the whimper in time.
A wave of nausea hits me hard, but the soldier’s hands on my wrists prevent me from doubling over.
He releases his grip, and Johann places the cold metal around my wrists. His calloused finger subtly caresses the skin on the inside of one wrist in a way that couldn’t be accidental. The movement is so tender, it summons a flash of longing and memories of other times he touched me that way.
The moment ends as abruptly as it started, and the cuffs click shut. I flinch but don’t dare to look at Johann, to see the cruelty in his eyes I have witnessed so many times in the enemy.
It’s not really him. It’s not my Johann.
The shorter soldier shoves me towards the cell door. I stumble. Johann grabs my arm, preventing me from sprawling onto the concrete floor, and allows me to get my footing.
He nudges me forwards, his hand on my shoulder. The action puts him between me and the other soldier.
They escort me out of the cell and down the corridor. We walk through a maze of other corridors until we come to the prison entrance. Johann shows the soldiers on duty the papers that release me into his custody. I am to be delivered to a senior officer in Avenue Foch, Paris.
Not a single word is exchanged between us.
He dismisses the shorter soldier and hope spreads through my chest. My last car ride required three escorts. I had two when I was taken to the hotel suite where I was interrogated. Now I have only one. I do not believe it’s because Johann does not see me as much of an escape risk. If there was another soldier waiting at the vehicle Johann came in, wouldn’t he have come inside the prison to help retrieve me?
I want to ask him what is going on, but now is not the time to voice the question out loud. I hug tightly onto my hope like it’s a warm blanket on a blustery autumn day.
Johann walks me to a black car that resembles one I have seen visit Jacques’s vineyard on several occasions. I want to ask about Jacques, but I am also not ready to hear the truth. For just a few more minutes, I want to believe the man I consider to be my father is alive and back at the vineyard, harvesting grapes.
Johann opens the rear door of the car. “Get in.” His tone is cool and brisk, a tone that is unfamiliar coming from him.
It’s not really him. It’s not my Johann.
Three soldiers march past but do not spare us a glance. The slap of their boots against the pavement has my body stiffening.
I half expect Johann to assist me into the car with a rough shove, to keep up the pretence, but he just waits for me to obey his command.
Nausea hits me hard again, sending my body reeling. I double over, retching, but nothing comes up. No relief is provided. My body hurts more than before.
Be strong, I silently pray to my baby. I’ll do whatever I can to protect you.
Johann braces my shoulder with one hand. The other hand rubs soothing circles between my shoulders. “Are you all right?” he asks in French.
The concern in his voice tucks in memories of the man who hid his Jewish friends from persecution. The man who talked lovingly about his father and his mother and his sister. The man who was broken after his best friend was executed for desertion.
I nod and straighten, breathing slowly through my nose.
I climb into the car and resist the urge to curl into a ball on the back seat. I’m tired. So very tired. The lack of desire to lie on the dirty prison bed and the nightmares prevented me from getting much sleep.
My cuffed wrists and injured hand make it impossible to get comfortable. I shift, resting my left shoulder on the seat.
Johann shuts the door and starts the engine. The silence in the vehicle is thick. It suffocates. Squeezes the air from my lungs. I lean the non-injured side of my head on the seat, my tender temple still throbbing.
I close my eyes and pretend I’m somewhere else. Someplace warm where there is no war. Perhaps a sunlit meadow covered with a blanket of bluebells.
The car stops. “I’m transporting the prisoner to Paris for interrogation,” Johann explains in German. There’s a rustle of paper.
Paris. Has everyone in the Cashmere network been taken to Avenue Foch to be interrogated? How long has the Gestapo been in possession of the list Christian mentioned—assuming he was telling the truth about it?
How long have they been watching me?
The car moves forwards. “As soon as it is safe to stop,” Johann says in English after a minute. “I will undo the handcuffs.”
“Okay,” I whisper, speaking in my native tongue for the first time in his presence.
The scenery soon changes from the once beautiful brick buildings of Dijon, now a stark reminder of the German infestation, to the soothing autumn colours of the countryside. There are no Nazi flags flapping in the wind. No Wehrmacht or SS or Milice inciting fear in the people on the streets.
If not for the scars in the ground caused by the bombings and machine guns, it would be so easy to forget about the war and the horrors of the occupation.
Eventually, Johann turns down a country road, a sentry of tall trees and bramble standing on either side of it. He drives a little farther and then stops. He kills the engine and gets out of the car. We’re in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by little more than farms and open space.