by Sherry Jones
“What do I want from you, Captain? Money?”
“If that were the case, your confidence would be misguided, since I have no money to give. Perhaps, madame, you ought to ask what I want from you.”
And then, he told her: the bureau needed volunteers—patriots—who could move across borders, from country to country, without suspicion from the Nazis.
“We must deliver information to our military and our allies—in person.”
“That would not be a problem for me,” she said. “I go on tour all the time, and I never get searched. If someone starts giving me trouble, I can make him forget all about it with just a smile.”
“As I said—you are well aware of your powers. To what extent would you use them to help France? I am aware that this is not your native country. Will you run away to the United States as so many have already done?”
“Josephine is a French citizen,” Danny said. “By marriage to the businessman Jean Lion.”
“Yes, I renounced my American citizenship two years ago.” At least something good came out of that disaster. “I’ve filed for divorce from Jean”—looking at Danny, but the words were for the captain—“but my heart belongs to France.”
“She is more French than the French,” Danny said.
“I would do anything for France. Anything.”
“Even risk your life? We need sensitive information—German plans and secrets of Nazi allies. We need someone who can entice the generals to talk, and convince the diplomats to give us access to them.”
“That would be no problem.” She laughed and refilled Danny’s glass. “One kiss from me, and they’ll babble like schoolboys. One tickle on the chin”—grinning, she reached out her hand to demonstrate, making the captain flinch—“or a rubbing of their bald pates”—she ran her palm across his forehead, tousling his hair, and he didn’t pull away, good!—“and they’ll promise me the moon. They’ll deliver it, too, because, as you have observed, I get what I want.” She leveled him a gaze fraught with promise.
“This is not a game or a time for jokes,” Abtey said. He picked up his glass and set it down again, then rose to his feet. “It is as I feared: she is not serious,” he said to Danny. “Let us go.”
Josephine stood, too. “A laughing demeanor can be an effective disguise, monsieur.” You should try it sometime, she wanted to say.
“I have not come for a flirtation,” he gruffed. “I seek dedication and passion for the cause, which is to save our nation from a monster.”
“I was demonstrating my techniques,” she said innocently. “Did they work?”
“You could be killed, don’t you know that?” Josephine took a step back, expecting him to hit her—but he had already turned away from her to walk circles on the antique carpet, his hands folded behind his back.
“I am aware of the dangers,” she said.
He walked right up to her, then, standing inches away, not touching her although she wanted him to. She could feel his breath on her face. A log shifted on the fire; sparks flew onto the hearth.
“You might be sent to a concentration camp to die a slow death,” he said, biting off the words one by one. “Or, if you are fortunate, the Germans will shoot you in the head. Before doing either, though, they would torture you. They will do anything to make you talk. Tell me, madame —how much pain would you endure before betraying us?”
She did not break their gaze. “I would not say a word.”
“Even as they pulled your teeth out one by one? Or pushed you under freezing water until you thought your lungs would burst?”
“I would swallow the water and drown myself.”
“Do you think they would allow it? No. They hold death before their victims like a cherished prize, then yank it away before you can succumb. They are masters of pain.”
Danny cleared his throat, and the captain pressed his lips together. His face had no written all over it.
“That would never happen to me, Captain. You do not understand how the people love me, even the Germans.”
He cursed under his breath and motioned to Danny with his left hand. “We are wasting our time.”
Josephine reached into her cleavage and pulled out the cross she had worn since the Nazi threat to France had emerged. She’d gotten one for herself and one for her husband, Jean Lion, a Jew, hoping wearing crosses might fool the Germans into thinking they were Christians—Josephine had converted to Judaism for Jean’s sake—and provide a way out if the ruse didn’t work. “Do you know what this is, Captain?”
He sneered. “If the Nazis arrest you, your God won’t save you.”
She twisted the arms of the cross and pulled it apart. “Inside, there is poison,” she said. “I wear it in case they do arrest me. If that happens, I’ll swallow every grain. I would rather die than go against my people.” His eyes widened. Good! She had impressed him.
“As you can see, I am serious. I can do this. It would be the most important performance of my life.”
“Josephine is une femme courageuse,” Danny said, bless his heart. “She has already been working for the cause, with an antiracism organization, is that right, Josephine?”
“And the Red Cross,” she said. “Also, I have been entertaining the troops on the Maginot Line. I will do whatever it takes to defeat Hitler.” The image flashed in her mind of the man with the scar at the Stage Theater des Westens in Berlin, fondling the heavy pistol in his lap and leering at her.
“You will make love to generals and ambassadors, enticing them to tell you their secrets, and then betray them?” He folded his arms. “This ‘technique’ has proved the downfall of the Deuxième Bureau before. You have heard of Mata Hari. How do I know you will not fall in love with the enemy and betray us, instead?”
“I already have two loves, Captain—France and Paris. To sweet France I will be eternally grateful, for it has been my refuge.”
What would it take to convince him? She wanted to fall to her knees and weep. Instead, she sank back into her chair, blinking back tears. Far from intimidating her as he had meant to do, Jacques Abtey had only strengthened Josephine’s resolve. Even if he turned her down, she would find a way to do more to beat those bastards.
“France made me what I am today.” She sat erect, babbling now, but who cared? She would talk all night if that was what it took. “And did I not become the cherished child of the Parisians? They gave me everything, especially their hearts.” She thumped her chest with her fist and pressed it against her own wild, twisting heart. “I am ready, Captain, to give my life to France. You may dispose of me as you wish.”
“Bravo.” His tone was wry, but she thought she saw respect in his eyes. Encouraged, she played her final card—one she’d remembered when Danny had spoken of the Red Cross a moment ago.
“I forgot to mention that I have wings,” she said. “Or did you already know? I am a pilot, with my own aeroplane.”
It was like switching on a light, the way his expression changed.
“An aeroplane?”
“A DGA-Eleven, yes. I deliver supplies for the Red Cross twice a week.” Look at his beautiful smile! “I can fly you anywhere you want to go.”
Abtey turned and gave Danny a pat on the back. “Now we are talking,” he said. He resumed his seat, and reached for his glass.
A PARTY WAS in full swing inside the Italian embassy, a three-story building on the rue de Varenne fronted by an impressive array of marble columns. Inside, the decor was every bit as breathtaking as one would expect from Italians: even the ceilings were covered in art. How ironic that, amid all this beauty, men did the dirty work of Benito Mussolini, now in cahoots with Hitler.
Josephine craned her neck, pretending to be entranced by the colors of at least a dozen different kinds of marble adorning the spacious lobby. All the while, she was listening to the conversations of politicians and diplomats and men in military uniform who mingled and drank their vile grappa and congratulated themselves on the Germans’ success. The pretty attaché—cur
ly dark hair, winsome eyes, narrow hips—strode across the floor to her, licking his full lips.
“La Divina,” he said, kissing her in greeting and following with a lingering hug, lightly pressing his erection into her thigh. She did not move away; in fact, the sensation was vaguely pleasant. How long had it been since she’d fucked a stranger?
“Bella,” he said, and followed with a stream of ardent declarations about her beauty, her talent, the honor of having her here as his guest. Josephine apologized and said her Italian was very poor although, in fact, she understood every word, having learned the language from Pepito and his chatterbox mother.
The youth switched to French but she shook her head again. Did he speak English? She knew, of course, that he did not. Captain Abtey had given her a complete dossier on the attaché: thirty-five years old; newly appointed in place of the pro-Nazi radical Angelo Parona; fluent in Italian, French, and German; and a farm boy drafted into service whose loyalties could not be discerned, as he kept company with all types. He gazed at her with mooning eyes.
“You’ve come a long way since Parma,” she said, deliberately butchering her French. “You speak no English? None at all? How will we talk?”
“Love knows no language,” he said in Italian, squeezing her waist. Josephine pretended not to understand.
His ardor was genuine; she had no doubt. She’d first seen him when she’d done a show in Parma—could it have been ten years ago? He had a face she could never forget. He and a half-dozen other boys had commandeered her car, ejecting the rented chauffeur and Pepito, and driven her through the cheering crowd to the theater. Josephine hadn’t been frightened, but she’d resented Pepito for letting it happen. The attaché had sat in the back seat with her, holding her hand and giving her the same looks he was giving now. She’d been surprised to see him last week, in uniform, at her Casino de Paris show, Paris et Londres. She’d sent him a note inviting him backstage, and wrangled an invitation to this party. Now she batted her false eyelashes and let him put his hand on her ass and pretended not to comprehend a word as he and his colleagues spoke, in Italian, about how Mussolini was going to let Hitler take France so that Italy could focus on invading the Balkan States.
“The French have built a formidable barrier with the Maginot Line,” her attaché said, asking exactly the right question. “How will Germany overcome it?”
The general in the group cackled. “Hitler has a plan,” he said, “one so secret that even I do not know what it is. Il Duce says it will not fail.”
When the talk turned to football, Josephine tugged at the attaché’s sleeve and, brushing his ear with her lips, asked if he’d show her to the ladies’ room. Immediately he excused himself, steering her with one hand on her waist and his fingertips on her hips, out of the beautiful reception room with its blue walls and velvet drapes and into the corridor where, unable to contain himself any longer, he covered her mouth with his. She resisted only a little, squirming against him to increase his arousal, and reminded him that she needed a toilette. When she came back out, she took his arm and asked for a private tour of the embassy.
He led her past a sumptuous dining room of gold and blue with chandeliers and long rows of white-clothed tables, and up the vast, multicolored marble staircase. Speaking in very slow French, which she made him repeat, he showed her the Chinese room; a library; a Sicilian theater with a small stage; reception suites in green, blue, and rose—and then, at last, the ambassador’s office, all cherry wood and bookshelves and a heavy desk with a leather chair where he took a seat and looked as satisfied with himself as if he belonged there.
Josephine perched on the desk, picked up a pen and a notepad, and pretended to be his secretary. As he “dictated” his love letter to her, he roamed his hands up her thighs and, at last, pulled her into his lap.
“This is much more exciting than that dull party,” she said between kisses, her blood heating up.
“You might have found it more interesting if you understood Italian.”
“Why? What were you talking about?”
He shrugged and smiled into her eyes as he pinched her nipple. “Nothing important.”
She pushed him away and stood. “You are making fun of me.”
“No!” He went to her and slid his arms around her waist to nibble the back of her neck. “I would never do that.”
She turned to gaze into his eyes. “I understand a little Italian, as I said. Your country is preparing to invade France, is that what I heard?”
He chuckled. “You really don’t know Italian, do you? Never fear, my little bird, our plans have changed.”
“You’re just trying to make me feel better.”
“No, I insist. Il Duce has commanded our generals to reposition our troops. Our men will head east, to the Balkans.”
“Ah, the Maginot Line is too much for you,” she said, slipping her hand down to his crotch. Should she try to get more information first? But he was already unzipping his fly, and she was squirming.
“Have I eased your fears?” He kissed her neck, sending shivers along her spine.
“I am very relaxed, thank you,” she said, and let him lay her on the ambassador’s desk.
When they had finished, she slipped into the adjoining restroom and washed up, pulling a pen from her purse and hurriedly writing down everything she had learned. Then she stepped out, and he went into the toilet. As soon as the door closed, she rushed to the desk and began opening drawers. A bottom drawer held files, but there was no time to read anything, so she looked in the top drawer, which held office supplies—a stapler and staple pull, paper clips, a bowl of loose change. The toilet flushed as she pulled the middle drawer, her heart racing, and saw a small book titled “German-Italian Codebook.” Voilà!
When the attaché came out again, he found her reclining on a green-and-red-striped divan, her purse on the floor beside her, stretching her arms toward him. “Come and kiss me.”
But he had grown nervous, his eyes darting toward the corridor. If they were caught in here, he would be in trouble.
“I understand,” she said, and stood, picking up her bag and slipping the strap over her shoulder, feeling the satisfying heft of the little book within. “Let’s go back and drink with the big shots. Do you have any champagne?”
CHAPTER 23
1940, Paris
To ensure there was enough food for all the soldiers at the Maginot Line, the French government issued ration cards, and restricted the sale of meat. “This occurred during the last war,” M. Varna said. “You had better move your clothes to your city house, Josephine. Soon they will ration gasoline, as well.”
Josephine told the staff at Chez Joséphine to save champagne bottles for her, as many as they could collect. She walked out that night with two cases, into which she poured fuel from the five-gallon gas can she had her driver fill at a different station every day to avoid drawing attention. She sealed the bottles with the corks she’d had her cooks whittle down to fit. She could always grow vegetables in her garden, but without fuel for her car she’d be trapped in Paris—a death sentence for her if the Nazis took over. Collecting gasoline became an obsession, almost like a game: how much could she gather before rationing began?
She wasn’t the only one living like an animal preparing for hibernation. Secrecy pervaded the city, hooding eyes, shuttering mouths. Gone was the gaiety that had made Paris the most vibrant city in the world. No longer did laughter fill the clubs; no longer did cars race up and down the Champs-Élysées until four in the morning; no longer did crowds jostle and bump elbows cheerfully on the café terraces, or walk with brisk, joyful steps up and down the Montmartre hill.
The city subdued itself, the Parisians speaking in hushed tones, gathering inside the cafés and bistros if they left their homes at all, walking with shoulders hunched against the pall that coated everything like ash, faces etched with gloom. The bright colors of spring gave way to gray and black, as if the whole world were in mourning. Even t
he birds didn’t sing that year, or if they did they could not be heard over the commands and replies of soldiers practicing defensive maneuvers in the streets, over the clang of shovels and picks as city workers dug trenches around the places and parks and built bomb shelters. When the city gave out gas masks, models wore them on the runway, adding a touch of macabre to the spring fashion shows. Signs appeared directing citizens to the nearest theaters, in case of emergency. Workers removed the stained glass windows from the Sainte-Chapelle cathedral, took down statues, and crated the major artworks in the Louvre. Anticipating bombings, the city, aided by the Red Cross, moved thirty thousand children out of the city to the suburbs—which the Germans then bombed, each sickening blast like a kick to Josephine’s stomach.
Government officials began to leave the city for southern France, and many citizens followed, making Paris a shell as hollow and brittle as the laughter of those who remained. Josephine supervised the packing of her most precious belongings in her city townhouse and Le Beau Chêne, sending everything away by train or car to Les Milandes, the castle in southeast France she’d bought five years ago: carpets, light fixtures, the golden baby grand piano, medieval armor, the Marie Antoinette–style bed, all her clothing, curtains, linens, art, gold bathroom fixtures, jewelry, tables, chairs, figurines, carved Okimono ivories, Fabergé eggs, music boxes from Switzerland. All this she accomplished with a limited staff, for many had fled—aided by Josephine, who gave money and bottles of gasoline to those who needed it and put the rest on trains, buying their tickets and seeing them off: Nicolas, her butler, and Michel, who cared for her birds; Yvette and André, both in tears; Paul, her wine steward; Cecile, her cook, and all their husbands and wives and children, Josephine crying because they were like family but also because she wanted to leave, too. But she must await orders from Jacques.
She had not seen him in months. He had his duties for the Deuxième Bureau, of course, and a wife and children in Alsace. And she kept plenty busy with volunteering and flights for the Red Cross; her performances in the Casino de Paris and for the soldiers at the front; running Chez Joséphine; recording; making another film, and attending endless parties to gather information for Jacques. For once, she had no time for men, except for those she seduced in her spy work, but those liaisons were brief. Now, she slept alone—her nights haunted no longer by ghosts but by memories and dreams of her times with Jacques.