8. Angelique
October 1943
France
The two armedguards outside the glass hotel door watch me with a mix of interest and disdain.
I glance over my shoulder to see if the vehicle Jacques was in is behind us. “Please, tell me where my papa is. He’s sick. He needs medical assistance.” Their manhandling of him might make his cough worse.
“He’ll be here soon enough,” is the only answer I get. The Gestapo agent pushes me forwards.
I stumble, my legs refusing to cooperate. My arms and shoulders ache from my hands being secured behind me for what feels like forever.
The other two Gestapo agents lead me into the building and escort me to the front desk. The man behind it could easily be a hotel employee if not for his Army uniform.
Bile rises in my throat. This man looks nothing like Johann, but that doesn’t dull the reminder that I’m pregnant. Pregnant with a baby whose father is the enemy.
“We have Angelique D’Aboville,” the stocky agent says in German to the soldier. “Captain Krüger is expecting us.”
The man nods at them, and I am taken into the awaiting elevator. We ride it to the top floor, where I am escorted down the hallway and into a suite designed for French aristocrats.
Under different circumstances, I would appreciate the crystal chandelier and the intricate gold patterns on the walls. Under different circumstances, I would enjoy the lush red carpet and the exquisite paintings. Under different circumstances, I would dream of holidaying in a place like this.
A heavy, ornate desk is situated in the middle of the room with two wooden chairs in front of it. The faint metallic scent of blood and fear looms in the air like a phantom.
The stocky agent drags me to one of the chairs and pushes me into it. I lose my balance and fall onto the cushioned seat. The hem of my skirt flutters up, revealing the bandage wrapped around my calf—the bandage concealing the gunshot wound I got during the mission five days ago to destroy the train tunnel.
I subtly move my feet under the chair, attempting to keep the injury out of plain sight. I don’t need to give them any evidence to support their claims that I am English. And a bullet wound on my calf will only raise questions I don’t wish to answer.
The handcuff is removed from one wrist and fastened to the arm of the chair.
“What is that from?” The question is spoken in French. The stocky agent points at the bandaged leg.
“A crow spooked me while I was working in my papa’s vineyard,” I reply, “and my leg brushed on something sharp.”
He kneels and unties the knot of the bandage. His actions aren’t gentle, and the friction of fabric against my wound tears at the scab. I don’t so much as flinch.
The bandage is ripped from my skin, taking parts of the scab with it. A searing pain shoots through my calf, and my muscles tense. Blood trickles down my leg and pools in the heel of my worn-out shoe.
The door behind me clicks open and shut. The two Gestapo agents stand to attention and salute. “Heil Hitler!”
A terse male voice responds in kind.
I take the moment to scan the room, searching for something to aid my escape. But given that I’m handcuffed to the chair, my options are practically nonexistent.
“I hear you found Angelique D’Aboville,” the new addition to the group says in German. His tone is crisp, the temperature of frost.
“That’s right, sir.”
“That’s good. I was hoping you would succeed in tracking her down.” The man belonging to the voice moves in front of me and continues to his desk. He pulls out the chair behind it but doesn’t sit. Captain Krüger, I assume. The man’s height stretches well above where I am seated, his shoulders broad and threatening. Another time and place and he might have been considered distinguished. “Did she cause you any trouble?”
The stocky Gestapo agent’s posture becomes less rigid. “No, but she insists on speaking in French and pretends not to understand English.”
“Is that so?” Captain Krüger’s eyes roam over my features. “She is most certainly the woman they call Carmen. Did she have her carte d’identité on her?”
The stocky agent hands him the papers he found in my handbag. There’s nothing incriminating in the bag, other than the secret pocket, which is currently empty.
Captain Krüger inspects the papers and gives a small nod. “She is indeed the whore who has been feeding secrets to the other side.” He puts the papers on his desk, moves around it to stand in front of me, and speaks directly to me in English, “Madame D’Aboville, would you like something to drink before we have our little conversation? Perhaps some tea?”
I look from man to man, as if hoping one of them will translate his words. “What did he say?” I ask the stocky agent who does speak French.
He doesn’t answer.
“Perhaps we need to convince you to speak in your native tongue, Angelique.” A small smile curves on Captain Krüger’s face and sends a chill racing along my spine. “Or do you prefer Carmen?”
I don’t say anything and work at keeping all emotion, other than confusion, from my expression.
“That’s what I thought.” He pulls his hand back and slaps me hard across the face.
My ears ring. My lip stings. A metallic taste assaults my tongue. But I still fight to keep all emotions from my expression, including pain. I don’t even fake confusion this time.
“Alright, Angelique. Should we try this again? Who forged your papers?”
Once more, I look at the stocky agent for a translation. And once more, I am slapped in the face. Blood trickles down my chin and drips onto my dark-green skirt.
“Who forged your papers?”
This time I don’t bother to look at the stocky agent. I sit motionless, waiting for the next blow to come. It doesn’t matter who forged the papers. The person lives in England. The Gestapo is unable to touch him. But that’s not what this is about. Captain Krüger wants me to confess I am an English spy. Once I give him that information, there will be no stopping him.
When the third hit to my face still doesn’t loosen my tongue, the stocky agent tells him about my wounded leg.
Captain Krüger kneels and lifts the hem of my skirt high enough to expose the wound. “That looks like it could be the result of a bullet. Who was firing at you, Angelique?”
Silence.
“It’s certainly a nasty wound. You wouldn’t want it to get infected, now would you?”
I turn to him. “I’m sorry. I don’t understand you. I only speak and understand French.” I release a long, exasperated sigh, as if growing bored of repeating myself, and begin to inwardly shut down.
My mind drifts to the last night I was with Johann. To his whispered words of love. To his tender and passionate kisses. To the promise we would be a family one day. To the feel of him inside me.
If this is the room where I’ll breathe my last breath, these are the last memories I want to have. I want to die remembering the love I feel for him, the love he feels for me. Because when I reach down to my soul, to my very being, I know it’s true. He might have been born to the side of the enemy, but he’s not one of them. I believe that—like Oskar does.
And if I am wrong, it won’t matter. I won’t live long enough to learn the truth.
But the one thing I do know is, I won’t betray my country. I won’t betray the people I love. I won’t give this monster what he wants.
He digs his fingers into the wound, doing what he can to draw a confession from me. A sharp pain tears through my calf, and I cushion my soul in a bubble, restraining myself from telling him what he wants to hear.
The brief torture ends, and I know I haven’t given him what he wants. The only words I uttered were in French.
My skin is damp with perspiration and my heart is hammering hard. I don’t have to look at the gunshot wound to know the damage is severe. If I am able to walk out of here on my own two feet, it will be a major accomplishment.
I send a silent message to the baby in my womb to stay safe, to not give up. Until the final beat of my heart has played out, there is always a chance. The moment I surrender to my fate, it will spell the end for both of us.
Right now, I need a reason to live beyond seeing Johann again. The life growing inside me is that reason.
“You can play the simple country whore all you want, Carmen, but I know the truth. And do you want to know how I know the truth?” This time Krüger’s words are spoken in French, and a chill passes through my body.
He nods at something or someone behind me, and the door clicks open.
Heavy footsteps approach from behind me. I fight the urge to turn my head to see to whom they belong.
A man steps into my periphery, but I don’t dare to look at him.
“Hello, Carmen. It’s nice to see you again.” The words are spoken in English with a true aristocratic English accent instead of the guttural German accent of Captain Krüger.
I turn my head. My heart slams into my ribs. My pulse pounds a funeral march in my ears. Because as much as I want to deny my identity, the man standing next to me knows the truth.
Christian. The SOE agent Allaire introduced me to over five months ago in Paris.
He’s a double agent? A traitor to king and country?
Bloody hell and fuck twice over. This is not good. Not good at all.