20. Angelique
October 1943
France
Fear pressesin on me from all sides even though Johann is with me, and I consider the low stone wall that separates the road from the copse of trees and the open farmland. Are we truly safe here? Or are the Nazis close by? Maybe word has already gotten out that I’ve escaped and the Gestapo is trying to hunt me down.
The car door clicks open behind me, and the handcuffs fall open, freeing my wrists. I could almost cry out in partial relief, but the intense throbbing of my right hand strangles that possibility.
I twist to face Johann and rest my hands on my lap. Now that we’re in daylight, I can see the mangled mess of what was once my right hand. My knuckles are bruised and swollen, two of my fingers are badly twisted, and the bone sticks out of my index finger. On top of that, a thick red band encircles my wrists where the handcuffs dug into my skin.
Johann curses in German as he gently inspects the damage.
My gaze flicks from his long fingers that are inspecting the ugly wound to his equally ugly uniform. A shudder rolls through me, so intense my hand jerks from his.
“I need to get you to a doctor,” he tells me, switching to French. He inspects my damaged lip and temple.
I open my mouth to utter something but change my mind. Afraid if I do talk, this dream will end, and I’ll be dragged into another real life nightmare. One where I am at Avenue Foch.
He brushes his thumb over the part of my mouth that isn’t split open. The last time I witnessed this level of pain and guilt in Johann’s eyes was when he was telling me about what happened to his sister. “Is the…” His words tumble out on a croaked whisper. “The baby?”
“I think it’s fine,” I say through a dry mouth, my words barely audible.
He closes his eyes and rests his brow on mine. “Thank God.” He moves his head away, his expression still pained. “I’m so sorry I wasn’t there to protect you. I didn’t know.”
“H-how did…how did you…find me?” The shudder gripping my body is getting worse.
He reaches over my lap, removes the blanket folded next to me, and gently wraps it around my shoulders. The blanket helps a little but it’s not enough. “I returned to the farmhouse and found Jacques muttering that the Gestapo had come for you.”
He’s alive. Jacques is alive and he’s home. I close my eyes in relief.
I reopen them to find Johann staring at me like I’m a buried treasure he thought he would never see again.
“It took me awhile to find out where you were taken, and then to get the required signature forged on the necessary documents to get you out.”
“How did you get the forged signature?”
“I cannot tell you. I didn’t even know if it would work. The guards were sloppy and didn’t check the authenticity of the papers.” Johann straightens and kisses my brow. “I need to get you to a doctor so he can reset your hand before it’s too late. Can you trust me? I know it’s not an easy thing I’m asking of you.”
I nod, even though he’s right. Trust is hard to come by in my line of work, even more so when you discover one of your own has turned traitor. But I do trust Johann. I trust him with my life.
He cups the less injured side of my face with his hand and brushes his thumb along my cheek. “I love you, Angelique. Though I am guessing that is not your real name.” He presses his finger to my lips. “Don’t tell me what it is. Not yet.”
He lowers his finger, and I nod. It’s bad enough the Gestapo knows my code name and alias. I don’t need them knowing my real name. If British and American agents are in France, I wouldn’t be surprised if their German counterparts are in England. If they were to learn our real names and locate our families, the outcome would be devastating.
“Thank you for finding me,” I whisper, barely getting the words out. My mouth is dry, my throat sore. He took a great risk searching for me and getting me out of the prison. I cannot thank him enough for what he did.
“I love you and I love our baby.” Johann rests his hand on my flat belly. “I have already lost my father, and I might have lost my mother and sister. I have no intention of losing you too.”
My insides squeeze in a good way, his words adding kindling to the fire of hope burning in me. Hope that burns even brighter with him by my side.
“I love you as well.” I hadn’t expected to ever get to say that to him again. “I love you so much.”
He helps me lie down on the car seat and covers me with the blanket. I manage to make myself somewhat comfortable. Johann starts the engine. The vibration hums through my body.
Exhaustion engulfs me, and I succumb to my fatigue.
* * *
“Angelique.”Johann’s soothing voice intrudes on my nightmare, the name tenderly spoken against my ear. Warm fingers stroke my cheek.
I slowly open my eyes. The blanket no longer covers me, and the sky is a deeper blue.
I push up to sit using my good hand. The excruciating pain in my wounded hand and wrist intensifies, aggravated by the movement. I struggle to catch my breath. “Where are we?”
“There’s someone here who can help you.”
I scan the area outside the car. The place reminds me of Jacques’s vineyard, only instead of vines growing, an orchard stretches in all directions. The nearest neighbour’s house isn’t visible from here.
I don’t recognise the location. I don’t think Johann brought me back to the village. That would be too dangerous.
The brick house in front of us hasn’t been bombed, but a crater is visible a short distance away in the orchard. It doesn’t look recent. The summer grass has found a way to poke through the damaged ground.
Johann guides me to the house, his arm supporting me around my waist.
I hold my injured hand against my body. I’m still woozy from the morning sickness and from being struck in the temple, but it’s an improvement compared to in the prison cell.
Johann doesn’t rush me. He speaks soothing words about the birds in the trees. I know it’s to distract me. I don’t remember him being that fascinated by the birds in Jacques’s vineyard.
The front door opens, revealing a man, his hair light grey, his face heavily lined. He could be in his early sixties. It’s difficult to tell. The war has rapidly aged us all.
He stares at Johann, eyes rounded with fear. “What are you doing here?” There’s a quiet desperation to his tone, his French dialect speaking of a high level of education. His eyes shift to me, and deep groves furrow his brow. “What happened to you?”
Johann doesn’t say anything until we draw closer to the man. “Gestapo tortured her. I was hoping you could help her, Dr. Hubert.” He has the same affection in his tone as he does when he talks about his sister.
The crease between the doctor’s eyes deepens. “Why was the Gestapo torturing you?”
I draw in a long breath, questioning the wisdom of what I’m about to tell him, but at the same time, knowing I don’t have much choice. Not if I am hoping to gain his trust. “I am part of the movement to free France and end the war.”
Surprise crosses his face, widening his eyes even more. I’ve openly admitted this in front of a German soldier. A captain of the Wehrmacht, no less. He may be familiar with Johann, but he clearly doesn’t know everything about the man I love.
Dr. Hubert waves us into the house, his gaze searching the area. Once we’re inside, he closes the door. “You will need to remove that vehicle,” he tells Johann. “I won’t have anyone believing that I am collaborating with the enemy. And I do not want to get into trouble should German soldiers come around.”
“I will. I just want to ensure Angelique is all right first.”
“Fine, hide the car in the barn for now. You can do that while I examine her hand.”
Johann looks at me, his concerned eyes questioning me, one eyebrow lifted.
“I’ll be fine.” I don’t want that despised car to draw attention to the house any more than the doctor does.
A woman appears in the hallway, drying her hands on a tea towel. A floral apron is tied at her waist, and her dark-grey hair is secured in a tidy chignon.
Her eyes land on Johann in his Wehrmacht uniform, and her expression twists into that of disgust. It doesn’t improve when her eyes shift to me. “We don’t want your sort here.” The words are directed at my face. In her view, I’m a horizontal collaborator. That much is clear.
“Rosita!” Dr. Hubert says in a gentle chiding voice. “Johann was the man I told you about who saved my life. I owe him this one time.”
“I am not a collaborator.” My voice is soft, my energy waning. The throbbing pain in my hand is quickly sapping me of my strength. “I’m English and I work with the maquis. There was a double agent in my network. He told the Gestapo where to find me.” A shudder passes through me at the memory of Christian’s betrayal and what followed after my arrest. I have no idea how much of this Johann had already gleaned before he saved me, but there is no point keeping it from him now.
“I’m going to examine her hand and see what I can do to help her while Johann hides his car in the barn.” Dr. Hubert’s tone is firm, but I cannot tell if the words are meant for her or Johann or them both.
Johann plants a tender kiss on my brow. “I won’t be long.”
The front door closes behind him, and Rosita ushers me into the kitchen, though with obvious reluctance. I would be the same if our places were reversed. She is taking a risk in opening her home to me, even if it is only for a short time.
“Sit.” She points to a chair at the wooden table. The cabinets and furniture are a collection of sage and dark wood, the walls pale yellow. So beautifully different from the hell I was in a few hours ago.
She goes to the sink and fills a kettle. “Is he really a German soldier? Or is he with the maquis and that uniform is to throw the Nazis off? He doesn’t speak with that horrible guttural accent.”
“His grandparents are from Switzerland. He’s from Austria.” I don’t answer her question about him being a German soldier. I have no idea what to say. Once the Gestapo discovers I’m missing, they will investigate how I escaped.
He risked everything for me.
Johann didn’t desert the Army with his friend Dieter. He was afraid it would put his mother and sister at greater risk than they already are. Yet, that’s exactly what he did for me. Surely, he doesn’t intend to return to his unit as though nothing has happened.
Dr. Hubert enters the kitchen with a medical bag and puts it on the table. He washes his hands and sits on the chair next to mine. Then he takes my hand and examines it, carefully moving my fingers.
Pain stabs through my hand, and my body tenses. I squeeze my eyes shut, doing my best not to whimper and yank my arm away.
“Is it true England plans to attack the Germans soon?” Rosita asks, and I have a feeling the question is to distract me from what her husband is doing.
“Eventually. But I don’t know when. None of us…will know until closer to the date.” They’re running out of time if Parliament plans to do it before winter hits.
The kettle whistles on the stove. Rosita gets up and moves it to the side.
Johann strides into the kitchen. Gone is his uniform. In its place are clothes that belonged to Yvon, Jacques’s son. Rosita nods at him, the earlier disgust in her expression faded.
“As best as I can tell, you have some broken bones and damaged ligaments,” Dr. Hubert explains to me. “I’ll need to reset them, but it will be very painful while I do that. I would give you an alcoholic drink to help numb the sensation, but we don’t have any. And there’s no guarantee the bones will set properly. A hospital would do a better job than what I can do here.”
“I can’t go to a hospital. Not at the risk of being caught again.”
“I agree. It’s too dangerous. But I want you to know the risks if I reset your bones. You may never have full use of your hand again.”
“I understand.” What will that mean once my baby is born? Will I be able to hold my precious child?
I don’t voice my fears. Without Dr. Hubert’s medical aid, it’s guaranteed I wouldn’t be able to hold my baby. I owe him everything for what he’s doing for me. For the risk he is taking in helping a fugitive.
Johann puts his hand on my shoulder, the gesture gentle and intimate. “She’s pregnant. Will that be a problem?”
That earns Johann a raised eyebrow from Dr. Hubert. “Yours, I assume?”
Johann nods.
Rosita tuts. “What is it with French and apparently English women bedding the enemy? French men are the best lovers. German men…” She makes a sound of disgust.
Despite the levity of the situation, Johann huffs a laugh. “Well, it is a good thing I have French blood in my veins from my great-grandparents.”
“How is it you’re even allowed to be in the German Army?” she asks. “Hitler doesn’t have a favourable view of the French. Our country is good enough to steal from and our women good enough to bed, but any child born to a French woman by a German soldier is looked down upon. They aren’t pure blood.”
“Somehow, that part was overlooked. They were more concerned about my sister being deaf than they were about my family’s bloodline.”
Rosita’s expression shifts, and the corners of her mouth tilt down. She must have heard of what the Germans and Austrians were doing to adults and children who were physically or mentally disabled or deaf.
Dr. Hubert lowers my hand to the table. “The pregnancy won’t be a problem for resetting Angelique’s hand. But it will come with risks. It just depends on God’s will and the will of your baby.”
“I understand.” I silently pray to a God I’m not sure I believe in that my baby will be all right.
And that Johann, our child, and I will survive this war.
“I will check your baby’s health after I set your hand,” Dr. Hubert says, his eyes kind and nonjudgmental.