The short one wants to know the name of Straffer’s assistant. The tall one translates for him.
“Lieutenant Jakob Baum,” I say. “You must know the lieutenant. He has that striking mustache and commanding voice. He reminds me of the Führer.”
Hitler is not necessarily a favorite of front-line German soldiers, but I have a feeling the short man might respond favorably to the reference. Also, I’m sizing Lieutenant Baum up the same way Straffer’s staff has, which I hope will give both men confidence that I’m telling the truth.
Unfortunately, the short man still wants to make a call. He insists I come with them to their nearby office. Office, I think. Christ, there could be a dozen men inside the place, if not a hundred. I have to end this here, in the street, one way or the other. I back up a step, as the short one reaches to take my arm, and let the power of my will enter my voice. I speak in fluent German.
“I am not some whore you can order about in the night,” I say. “I am not just a friend of General Straffer, I am his lover. And yes, I know what you are thinking, that he is married and will leave me the moment he leaves Paris, but it is not so. He has given me his word we are to be married come July in Berlin, and he is a man of his word. And he has pledged to protect me from any harm, come what may. Now both of you, stop and think how he will react when I tell him how shabbily you have treated me this night.” I pause. “I won’t be surprised if you are shot come morning.”
My words have a deep impact on the tall man and he immediately starts blubbering his apologies. However, the squat fellow seems immune to the wiles of my voice, which happens now and then. If anything, his suspicions soar and he pulls out his handgun and points it at my head. He speaks to me in barking German, a language that often seems designed for temper tantrums.
“Do not think you can frighten us with your empty threats,” he says. “You are in violation of curfew. Your reason for wandering the streets at this time is laughable. If General Straffer really cared for you, he would have made sure you were escorted to your door. I can only assume you are a liar and a secret enemy of the Nazi party. Now turn and walk into that building across the street or else I will shoot you where you stand.”
I smile. “Shoot me.”
The tall man shakes. “Herr Faber, please put down your gun. I have heard talk Straffer is seeing a blond beauty. This must be her. Her papers are in order. If we upset her—”
“Halt den Mund!” the short one screams. Shut up! “I don’t care if she has bewitched the general. There’s something strange about her. Her eyes, they are not normal. I don’t trust her. We must check out her story.”
I nod as the short one speaks. He’s highly perceptive. Few humans can tell I’m not human; I’m impressed to meet one who can. However, his unique insight has made it unlikely he will live to see the dawn.
“Shoot,” I repeat.
The tall man is a mass of nerves. He is close to tears and I feel sorry for him. In two minutes, the lazy night has transformed into a life-and-death situation. He drops his cigarette and accidentally knocks over their bottle of wine, which he left resting on the bench. The sound of the breaking glass echoes in the night like the sound of snapping nerves. The short one is close to pulling the trigger.
“Fräulein,” he warns me as he cocks his weapon.
I take a step closer. The muzzle is inches from my head.
“Shoot,” I say again.
The short man grins bitterly. I realize something else about him right then. He should have been Gestapo. He is a true Nazi, a sociopath. Orders aside, he wants to kill me because he enjoys killing.
“Hündin,” he says, calling me a bitch.
The man squeezes the trigger.
I instantly reach up and turn his aim on his partner.
The roar of the shot, in the silent night, is deafening. The bullet hits the tall man in the chest and ruptures his heart. He’s dead before he hits the ground. The short one stares in shock at the grip I have on his wrist, the pressure I’m applying. The shock changes to desperation as I slowly twist his aim toward his temple.
“Arschloch,” I whisper, calling him an asshole, an instant before I slide my hand over his finger and pull the trigger. The bullet cracks open his skull and a glut of dark blood erupts from his mouth. I leap back to avoid being sprayed.
I run away, fast. There’s no point in trying to hide the bodies. The streets don’t flood with cars searching for me, not that I expect them. Even during the day there are few vehicles on the road. The Nazis have taken away most French driver’s licenses. The hometown crowd is reduced to riding mostly bicycles. Only the Germans are allowed to drive freely, and those who have cars are almost always Gestapo.
Yet I’m several blocks distant from my dastardly deed, when I see three black cars suddenly plunge into the street from behind a garage door. The cars appear at a steep angle, as if rising from the deep, and I realize, by sheer accident, that I have discovered the secret entrance to the Gestapo headquarters.
I wait for the posse of cars to vanish and rush beneath the garage door a second before it closes. I expect to confront a handful of guards but find no one. The doorway must be controlled from a distance. I’m alone in a black tunnel that stretches for far longer than the two blocks Anton’s friend described. However, I’m certain I’m on the right track.
The dark is an old friend and the tunnel is poorly lit. Running silently along the right wall, I eventually come to a claustrophobic underground cavern jammed with a dozen cars, three tanks, and ten jeeps loaded with high-caliber machine guns. I’m staring at riot control center, and yet, like at the entrance, the area is unguarded. I don’t have to stretch my imagination far to realize why.
The Nazis are an arrogant bunch. In their wildest imagination, they can’t conceive that a group of Frenchmen might storm their stronghold. I can’t wait to share my discovery with Anton’s comrades and prove how wrong they are.
Still, Anton remains my priority and I’m relieved, finally, to hear the faint cries of screaming men. The sound is far from pleasant but it tells me my goal is near. Clearly the Gestapo prefer to do their dirty work far underground. I pray they have not reached the point of torture with Anton. He’s only been in custody since this morning, and it’s generally the Gestapo way to first use gentle persuasion to achieve their goals, never mind that they almost always execute their prisoners when they’re done with them.
A single door stands at the far end of the cavern—an unremarkable barrier. Not only is the door made of ordinary wood, it’s not even locked. Again, I’m reminded how arrogant the Nazis are. I enter without making a sound.
The screams are suddenly no longer so faint. I find myself standing in a stark hallway with gray metal for walls, and a ceiling so high the mazes of rooms on my left and right are not nearly tall enough to reach it. I take a moment to understand. The individual rooms do not have ceilings, but are exposed to whoever is watching from beyond the metal-plated ceiling.
A wave of uncertainty strikes me. Even if I identify the compartment where Anton is being held, if I burst in and try to remove him by force I’ll alert the whole compound. True, so far I have not run into anyone but I know the “eye in the sky” never sleeps. Right now, high above, there are probably several people on duty. It’s possible they’re watching me. I have to move fast.
To my left, around the corner of the hallway where I stand, I hear an unexpected sound. A female German telling her superior she has to use the restroom. Whoever she is speaking to chuckles and tells her she is going for a smoke, which she knows is forbidden.
I assume that smoking is taboo because of the poor ventilation. The air I breathe stinks of sweat, blood, and pain. Also, it’s probable that if the whole Nazi gang smoked while on duty, the stink would reach the streets and alert the French men and woman who innocently stroll past the old elementary school. German culture is a mass of rules—they’re a rigid species—but most exist for a reason.
I want the woman
, I want her uniform. If I can get to her before the spies above spot me, I should be able to move around freely, if only for a few minutes. Hurrying to the corner, letting my nose be my guide, I pick up a faint smell of urine and feces coming from a nondescript door. Of course the Germans wouldn’t have a separate restroom for the ladies. For all I know, the woman I heard is the only female in the compound. I hope that’s not the case—it would make my disguise that much less effective.
I try the door, gently, but it’s locked. The woman must have wanted privacy. I snap the lock, also gently; it makes a dull, grinding noise. I’m inside in an instant and am grateful to see the restroom, at least, has a ceiling. Three urinals stand on my right, three stalls are on my left. The woman is in the last stall, against the wall, sitting on a toilet with her long skirt intact.
Her boss knows her well; she has come to smoke.
Nazis love to wear black, to instill dread into their enemies, although they occasionally dress their attire up with red and white, like the Nazi flag. However, when they’re stationed in occupied territories, the Gestapo usually have on gray-green SS uniforms. Their choice of colors is shrewd. The SS and Gestapo are equally hated, and their uniforms make them impossible to mistake for civilians.
The woman sings softly as she smokes, a French song about a lost lover. I recognize it from the radio and am surprised how pretty her voice is. It’s possible at home she’s a professional performer. Not that I care. She’s not going to leave the restroom alive.
I come at her like a spider dropping from the sky, using the adjoining stall to climb up and over into her cubicle. Her cigarette falls from her dry lips and she tries to cry out, but my palm closes over her mouth as I crouch by her side, my own lips inches from her bulging eyes. I speak in whispered German.
“Please, Fräulein, do not to be afraid. I know I have taken you by surprise and I know it is hard to comprehend my strength. My grip feels like a vise, does it not? Don’t worry, you are not imagining it. I’m stronger than a dozen men put together. I was born that way, and I can break your neck in an instant if you refuse to cooperate. Do you understand?”
The woman nods frantically. Fortunately, she’s about my size—her uniform should fit. Her hair is short, dark, her eyes brown and teary. Veins pop through the whites. One bursts from the intensity of my stare. Let her feel my fire, I think.
She’s a Gestapo officer, in her mid-twenties. On the collar of her coat she wears the rank of lieutenant, which leads me to believe she’s witnessed her fair share of torturous interrogations and probably conducted a few. Even though there’s terror in her eyes, there’s also a deep coldness.
For me, the true mark of the Nazi secret police is their extraordinary lack of empathy. I have met many cruel people in my five thousand years, but I have never met an entire organization that is so consistently evil.
“This morning the Gestapo took a friend of mine into custody,” I say. “He was sitting in a café near the Louvre when he was arrested. I suspect he was eating a cheese sandwich on a roll and drinking coffee. This man is a good friend. His name is Anton Petit. Have you heard of him?”
She hesitates, then shakes her head. She is lying.
I smile. “I know he’s here. Let me describe him to you. He’s tall and thin but strong. He walks like a puppet, like he might fall at any second, but he’s fast in a pinch. His hair is black, like his eyes. He’s handsome, if you saw him you wouldn’t forget.” I stop and tighten my grip. Another vein in the whites of her eyes pops and the red spreads over her anxious gaze. I add, “Nod if you intend to tell me where you’re holding him.”
She struggles to breathe through her nose. The passageway appears slightly clogged; nevertheless, she is hyperventilating and might pass out if she doesn’t stop. I pinch her nose shut and speak in her ear.
“I need to know what you know. I’ll kill you if you don’t talk.”
She struggles in my arms for a few seconds, then stops. Her eyes stare at me, pleading. She blinks rapidly as if trying to say yes. I release her nose.
“Good,” I say. “Now I’m going to take my hand off your mouth. But I warn you, if you cry out you’ll die. Be very certain of this. Don’t forget how strong I am. How easy it will be for me to shatter every bone in your neck. Do you understand?”
The woman nods and I remove my hand. She is a mass of nerves. Hanging her head, she immediately breaks into a fit of coughing, and I pat her back helpfully, encouraging her to take deep breaths. It takes her two minutes before she’s ready to speak. By then her lit cigarette has filled the stall with smoke and I crush it with my boot.
“Who are you?” she gasps.
“My name is unimportant. My friend Anton is. Tell me, now, is he on this floor? And don’t lie to me. I’m as sensitive as I am strong.”
Her eyes turn up, as if searching for help, then wander in the direction of the restroom door. Quickly, too fast for her to see, I pinch the flesh of her chin, bringing a smear of blood. I shush her when she goes to cry out.
“Start talking,” I say.
She swallows thickly. “If I tell you what you want to know, will you promise to let me live?”
“How many dying Frenchmen have you made that promise to?”
She shakes her head. “I don’t do such things. I work in an office with a typewriter. I keep records, I do what I’m told. I never wanted to join the party.”
“Why did you?” I ask.
“The war came, I wasn’t given a choice. It was either join or become an outcast.”
“You didn’t have to join the Gestapo to serve your homeland. I live here in Paris, I have seen many of your kind. Yet few are women. You’re young for an officer. And officers don’t spend their time in an office typing. You must be good at what you do, a bright young woman like you. You must know everything that goes on here.” I pause. “Last chance. Tell me what I want to know or die.”
She goes to speak, then glances at my hands, the sleek beautiful hands that have no right to be so strong. Her fear seems to crystallize; it appears to give her clarity. Suddenly she understands how close she is to death.
“He is here,” she says. “Room six-H.”
“I saw a number of rooms coming here. None were labeled. Where is room six-H?”
She stammers. “When I said he’s here, I meant he’s in the building, one floor up. There are stairs at either end of the hallway. Both lead to his floor. The rooms are clearly marked.” She adds, “I can take you there if you wish.”
Finally, she’s telling the truth.
“Does six-H have an open ceiling like the rooms outside?”
“No, only scum . . . I mean, the Jews are interrogated down here. People we consider important, they are taken upstairs.”
“What condition is Anton in?” I ask.
She shrugs. “He’s okay. We’ve only begun his interrogation.”
“We? I thought you didn’t do such things.”
She pales. There’s so little blood left in her face I cannot see a juicy spot to bite. Naturally, I wish I had time to drink her blood. I’m thirsty and, besides, I enjoy seeing a Gestapo witch up close as she bleeds to death.
“I wasn’t talking about myself,” she pleads. “I like the French. I don’t want to be here. I’m just obeying orders.”
“I’ve heard that line before. Tell me, what is your name?”
She hesitates. “Rika Schnell.”
I lean close. “Do you believe in God, Rika?”
She trembles. “No. Why?”
“I understand your doubts. I think I met him once, long ago, and I still find it hard to believe he exists. But I like to think he does and that he forgives me for what I’m about to do next.” I pause. “Close your eyes, Rika, and be still. You won’t feel a thing.”
She cringes, tears spring from her eyes. “No! Please!”
Her cries, she’s too loud. I cannot let her continue.
Reaching out with both hands, one palm beneath her chin, the other on
top of her skull, I jerk her head up and around, through a violent half circle. As I promised, every bone in her neck breaks.
Progress, I tell myself. Now I have a uniform and a room number. After changing into Rika’s clothes at breakneck speed, I prop up her body in the stall and head for the door, listening closely before stepping into the hallway. I have no intention of trying to pass myself off as Lieutenant Rika Schnell but I’m confident I can appear to be the new girl in town.
There’s no one in the hallway. I head back the way I came, searching for the promised stairs, passing two occupied rooms. In the first a German male is grilling a French woman. In the next a man is being pounded with a heavy fist. If not for my fear of being seen from above, I’d put a permanent end to both interrogations. It’s hard to walk by and do nothing, but I have to stay focused on Anton.
Ten days until Operation Overlord. Lieutenant Frank Darling—my friend and partner on Eisenhower’s staff—has said that’s what the Allies are calling the main invasion. Specifically, Frank said, the attack on the Normandy coast is code-named Operation Neptune. I prefer the latter title, probably because I used to live in Rome when the original Neptune was worshipped.
Rome. The thought of the city reminds me of Harrah. My friend and roommate is obsessed with the city. We’re close, along with her husband, Ralph, and I have entrusted them with the truth of what I am, and how old I am.
Since I confided in them, Harrah has begged me to tell her stories about ancient Rome. A strict Jew who often behaves like a Catholic—she reads the New Testament as often as the Old—she’s also asked me to tell her everything I know about Galilee. But since I never visited the region when Christ was alive—I never heard of him until many years later—I’m unable to satisfy her curiosity.
I reach the stairs and have to force myself to take them one at a time. At the top is another door, but this one leads to a crowded hallway. At least this floor has a reasonable ceiling. My earlier fears were unwarranted—there are numerous female Gestapo. Odd, I think, how I have never seen any on the streets.