Chapter Thirty-One
Thirty-One
It was the two-edged sword of music, Marcel thought as he ignored the pain, the situation, the abbreviated future before him, and played. It cut both ways. The Nazis could use it against them, turn it into propaganda, lure them in with it.
But Marcel could use it to hold them enthralled too. He could hold his captors captive for twenty minutes, an hour, and buy his friends that much peace. He could use other men’s compositions to send a message to the woman he loved, praying she could hear it, wherever they had her.
Rachmaninoff’s Second Piano Concerto in C minor—you are more than you think. Ravel’s “Jeux d’eau”—you brought joy to my life. The Leonora-Luna duet from Il Trovatore—there’s nothing you can’t do.
Song after song, his last love letter to her. And when Von Eberstein stood, signaling the end to the concert, Marcel tapped one final message. .--- . / - .----. .- .. -- .
Je t’aime.
A few of the soldiers clearly knew both Morse and French, given the snort of one, the quick bark from another to shut up.
Some of these men, at least, understood the aching of a heart saying its final goodbye.
He couldn’t regret the chase of his shooting star. Didn’t care if he was about to burn up in reality’s atmosphere. She’d been worth it.
Von Eberstein snapped out a command for everyone to get back to their duties, and Marcel sighed, lifted his hands from the keys, and stood.
The black cap was back on the man’s head, its skull and crossbones glowering at him. Marcel smiled. “It’s a beautiful instrument. What’s it doing here?”
Von Eberstein smoothed a hand down his jacket and rested the other on the glossy side of the piano.
“Just because one is trapped in a barbaric little fortress doesn’t mean one can’t bring a bit of culture along.
” His chin rose. “You could have lived a long life, Laurent. Entertained millions with your talent.”
His jaw ached. And his shoulders. And his ribs. But he smiled. “Better a short life lived with a clear conscience before God. I’ve made my difference. I leave the rest in his hands.”
Any warmth in Lothar’s eyes froze over again. “What difference? The Allies will not win this war, Marcel. Your Resistance—they’ll be crushed. All you’ve done is put people in danger. People I will hunt down and see executed until the last sparks of the rebellion are put out.”
Marcel leaned forward a bit on the bench, toward the man who’d never been his friend.
“As long as the stars are shining in the heavens, Lothar, this Resistance will burn bright. With or without me. With or without any one person.” He stood, noticing for the first time that Von Eberstein was no taller than he was, no broader.
No more intimidating when it came to sheer physical presence.
It was only the uniform that lent him authority. That wretched black insignia.
But Marcel didn’t need such things. He had a more important sign, sketched on his forehead every time he stood in the presence of God. Over his lips, over his heart.
Lothar’s mouth went tight.
Marcel let his smile go soft. “You can try to stamp it out. But even the Nazi Party can’t extinguish the stars.
And if my work has shown that truth to even one person .
. .” It had, he knew it had. Zelie, yes.
Her children. But not only them. His family.
Their agents. René and the rest of his orchestra.
Everyone who had tuned in to their radio program and listened to the beauty that promised hope beyond the ashes.
He drew in a deep breath and let it peacefully out.
“Then I go to God in peace, knowing he will never stop championing freedom.”
Lothar’s nostrils flared, but he only snapped out, “Heines will see you to a cell” as he spun away.
The muscle-bound menace whose fists were far too familiar with Marcel’s torso stepped up and grabbed him by the elbow as Von Eberstein strode out ahead of them.
Marcel said nothing more, only prayed this cell would be one of the empty ones he’d seen alongside his friends’ instead of the enclosed room they’d had him in before. Or perhaps wherever Zelie was.
Heines moved to the closest empty cell on the ground-floor block of them, used the keys on his belt to open it, shoved Marcel in, locked it again, and then took a step back. He leveled a glare on the lot of them. “Lights out. No talk.”
From the end cell on the side opposite Marcel’s, Henri gave a lazy salute.
Apparently the guard thought the warning was enough, because he sauntered away in the same direction all the other footsteps were going, leaving them in near darkness. The only light to reach them came from the cafeteria they’d just left.
As soon as the last of the footfalls had faded to nothingness, Marcel gripped the bars. “I’ve told them I’m in charge, let them think Zelie was nothing but a pretty face we kept around to charm people. Say enough to back that up. Get them to release her.”
“And what?” It wasn’t only her voice that came from the darkness—she did, the meager light catching on her face as she sashayed from the adjacent hall like Vivi would do, swinging a ring of keys around her finger. “You’re going to let them kill you in my place? I don’t think so, mon amour.”
“Zelie.” It was a whisper, but his whole soul shouted. He pulled at the bars as if he could budge them from joy alone. “What are you doing here?”
“Saving the day, I believe.” She tried a key in his lock, hissed when it didn’t work, and moved to another. “Seems little, unimportant women can squeeze through the bars meant to hold you burly, powerful men.”
He breathed a laugh as the lock gave way. Slipped out, and indulged in exactly three seconds of bliss as he pulled her into his arms. Just three, then he let her go and moved with her toward the cells across the aisle.
“Andre there was telling us during the concert that he knows a way out,” Henri said as Daviau’s door slid quietly open.
The elder of the two other policemen nodded. “Worked here briefly before the place was shut down thirty years ago. Didn’t dare think we’d be able to get to it, certainly not so soon, but I can get us outside.”
“Then let’s not waste time talking about it.” Zelie moved from cell to cell, freeing them all, and they gathered into a knot in the center of the aisle.
“It’s only going to get darker,” Andre warned. “Everyone grab hold of someone. I’ll lead the way.”
Marcel didn’t have to be told twice. He grabbed hold of Zelie’s hand, nudging her toward Henri, who was holding her other one. He sent his friend a look over her head, knowing that even in the dark, Henri would have no trouble interpreting it.
If only one of them could get out, it had to be her. If they were caught, she had to be protected.
Zelie gave his fingers a hard squeeze, probably knowing his thoughts. Then she tugged him forward.
They moved slowly, quietly, and soon in total darkness, but Andre never hesitated or wavered.
It felt like an eternity later that they moved down a dank-smelling stairwell—Andre warned them as they reached it—then into an even danker-smelling chamber with a dirt floor.
And then, finally, toward a little square of moonlight.
A grunt came, along with a thud of shoulder on wood. “Locked. Do you still have those keys, madame?”
Zelie’s hand slid from Marcel’s. Keys jangled softly. Then her fingers wrapped around his again. Their line turned back into a knot, and she tucked herself into his side.
His shoulder hurt, and his ribs, but it was still the best feeling in the world to curl his arm around her. “You have to get free,” he whispered into her ear. “No matter what. You live. You escape.”
“We live. We escape.” She rested a hand against his stomach and stretched up. Whispered her lips over his. “Thank you for the concert. It was the sweetest love letter you’ve given me. Which is good, because they took my favorite.”
“I’ll write you another.” He rested his forehead against hers, but only for a moment. From somewhere above them, a bell rang and kept ringing.
Andre yanked open the door. “Hurry! That’s the alarm.”
They all rushed out into the night, then paused as Andre shut and locked the door behind them.
Marcel’s heart sank. He’d been hoping for a forest, a town, something they could disappear into. But all he could see was field after fallow field, and a road cutting through the center of them. No doubt picturesque in the summer, when the famed flower fields of Provence were in bloom.
A death sentence now. And they wouldn’t have much of a reprieve, given the engine he heard coming, the tires spinning.
“That isn’t a German engine.” Daviau stepped away from the wall, looking toward the south.
A Renault lorry bounced into view, slamming on its brakes when it drew even with them. Had God answered their prayers before they’d even had a chance to pray them? He was ready to believe so.
Until Emile swung out of the cab, his eyes wide with disbelief as he looked at them, as if their appearance was the unexpected one. “How did you escape?” His voice was low but still reached them.
Henri and the gendarmes all surged toward him, urgent whispers flying, presumably in explanation.
Marcel and Zelie both held their ground, hands gripping tight.
Emile motioned the men into the lorry and strode toward Marcel and Zelie, the moonlight painting his face in silver determination. He stopped a few feet away, hands up. “I know. I know you don’t trust me, and you shouldn’t. Not after what I did. But let me atone.”
“Do you think we’re stupid?” Zelie hissed.
He winced. “I think I was. I’ve known it for a while, but there was no denying it today.
Marie and I came home to introduce our parents to the baby.
And he—her father—he said we were no family of his, not given that my cousin had been arrested as a spy.
” He shook his head, lowered his hands. “Everything I did for his approval. And it didn’t even matter.
You don’t have to forgive me. But let me do what I can to make it right. ”