by Renee Ryan
Who was this man? It was not the first time her mind had pondered the question.
“Hands up,” he said again.
Gabrielle swallowed and did as he commanded, only to find the pistol pointed at her head now. He was going to shoot her.
This place, she thought. Where the lies began. This is where I will die.
She thought of the family she had left. Josephine, too old to defend herself. Paulette, too young and naïve and reckless. Gabrielle must save herself, for them. “I didn’t kill the lieutenant,” she said in French. Then switched to German. “He’s not dead. You can check for yourself.”
Mueller pulled back the hammer of his pistol. The future came and went with the sound—voices of children she would never have, sounds she would never hear again. A grape press, the snick of clippers to a vine. Her grandmother’s laughter, her mother spritzing perfume at her neck, the slow release of a champagne cork.
Gaze on her face, Mueller took one step, and then another. His eyes had narrowed to tiny slits. A man taking aim. She tried to scream. It had no sound. Nothing but air forced through her throat. His finger squeezed the trigger.
The bullet went wide and hit the wall high and to the right of her head. Her ears rang from the percussion. Bits of stone rained down, sticking in her hair, peppering her shoulders, her arms. A rush of terror flooded her brain. And all she could think was that he’d redirected his aim. The bullet penetrated the wall mere inches above her head. One shot was all it took to expose the room where she and François had painstakingly concealed the greatest of her family’s treasure. Proof she’d committed treason.
Mueller would arrest her now.
But he wasn’t looking at her. Or the wall. He holstered his gun and focused on the lieutenant’s prone body. Bending over, he checked for a pulse, ran his hands over the lolling head, his fingers coming away with blood. “He’s alive.”
He stood, wiped his hands on the handkerchief he pulled from a pocket, then moved to stand before her. She felt tears on her face. She didn’t want to cry. But couldn’t seem to stop herself. She started to shake uncontrollably. “Who are you?” she asked.
“A friend.” The words refused to register. Her mind could not accept them, or the voice that spoke her language like that of a native.
His fingertips touched her throat, the move almost reverent, though his eyes held great fury. “The lieutenant did this to you?”
She nodded, feeling relief. Regret. Confusion. Fear. “Who are you?” she asked again.
His response was the same as before. This time in English, spoken with the British accent of the peerage. And...his eyes. That pale, pale blue stared back at her free of hate, of cruelty, of things she’d thought were a part of his very nature.
Warmth took up residence in her heart. She wanted to believe this man was more than he seemed. That he was, indeed, a friend. It would be a foolish mistake on her part. And yet, she found herself saying in a voice full of hope, “I don’t understand.”
“I know, and there is very little time for lengthy explanations.” He returned his attention to the prone body, a hiss slipping past his lips.
Not even sure this moment was real, confused by the contradictory emotions rolling around in her heart, her head, Gabrielle felt the need to defend herself. “He attacked me,” she said, her voice cracking. “He tried to strangle me and I...” She swallowed. “I stopped him. I didn’t plan to kill him. I just. He was on top of me. And I—I didn’t kill him. I—”
She wanted to say more, but her tongue felt too thick for her mouth.
“It’s all right. You’re safe now.” The words sounded rough in his throat. “You’re safe.”
His hand moved to her cheek, his thumb wiping at the tears leaking from her eyes.
She blinked at his show of tenderness. His behavior was at odds with everything she thought she knew about him. She didn’t know what to make of the gentle touch as he cupped her chin. The long stare as he pulled his hand away. The lack of derision on his face.
Only sorrow in his features now. Also, strength.
The next thing she knew, she was stepping toward him, wishing to be in his arms, to rest in the knowledge that he was, as he claimed, a friend. Impossible. He was a Nazi. Gestapo.
Or was that the lie? Was Wolfgang Mueller, as she’d suspected, more than he seemed?
Gabrielle didn’t know what to think anymore, what to believe, who to trust. The world suddenly went dark, her vision as black as night, and she felt herself swaying, falling. She didn’t try to catch herself.
And then, she was in his arms, her face pressed into his neck, his smell of sandalwood, bergamot and lime encircling her. The scent of her enemy. Bringing her comfort. Her tears flowed freely, soaking into his neck, the shirt collar below, while his hand stroked her hair.
Her thoughts were disjointed. Friend or foe? Enemy or ally?
Both, neither, she reveled in the strength of his arms wrapped around her. She could feel the hard lines of his biceps sheltering her in place.
Then, she remembered who he was. The world he represented. His arrival this morning on her doorstep and her mother’s arrest, and she shoved out of his embrace. He gave not an ounce of protest. She stared at him, her breath bursting from her chest, horrified at herself, ashamed of her weakness and her betrayal of the husband she’d lost a lifetime ago.
How could she have found even a moment of rest from this man, her enemy. She tasted copper in the back of her throat. The taste of her humiliation.
“You have questions.”
She nodded.
“They will have to wait,” he said, not unkindly.
She nodded again, grateful for the reprieve. She needed to catch her breath, while her mind reviewed each moment she’d spent in this man’s company. The small favors he’d afforded her. The tiny protections. The warnings she’d thought were threats but now understood to be protections.
Who are you?
He spent the next few minutes securing the lieutenant’s hands behind his back, rolling him over, then propping him against a wine barrel. As she watched, Gabrielle knew she was witnessing a man proficient in all aspects of police work. She now knew what to ask. “You’re really Gestapo?”
He presented a tight, uncomfortable smile, followed by a very small nod. He walked over to the wall, rested his palm beside the gaping hole he’d blown into the stones, peered into the room beyond. “Not what anyone would call quality work, but acceptable to the untrained eye.” He spoke in French, the hideous German accent no longer woven through the words. “The spiders are a nice touch.”
Gabrielle tried not to show her shock. “You are Gestapo, but—” she paused “—not a Nazi.”
As soon as the words left her mouth she knew them to be true.
His words confirmed her suspicions. “I work in the dark to serve the light.”
Yes, she thought. Of course. All along, something in her had recognized the good in him.
He looked down at the lieutenant, frowned. “I’ll take care of this problem.”
Despite her confusion, and the pain in her throat, and what felt like daggers being plunged into her brain, Gabrielle rearranged in her mind everything she knew about this man. She placed past events in a different order. She reframed the facts, the clues that had been there all long, the mixed messages, the warnings, and then, in a brief flash of insight, the British accent.
Her mind worked it all out, and she knew the truth in her heart. “You are a secret agent working for the Allies.”
“It is better for you if I don’t respond.”
“But how is that even possible?”
He turned thoughtful, considering, then gave one short nod as if coming to a decision. “I have been embedded in Germany since before Hitler became Chancellor in 1933. I attended university in Berlin, then worked my way up through the ranks of the police. It w
as a natural progression to move into a position with the Gestapo.”
While she did the math in her brain, calculating his age, and how long he’d been undercover—nearly a decade—he explained that his mother was from German nobility, his father an English code breaker who’d worked for British naval intelligence during the last war.
Mueller had spent most of his summers in Germany with his mother’s family, but his loyalties had always been with England. He’d followed in his father’s footsteps and joined the intelligence unit of the British army. Hitler rose to power that same year, and Mueller had been tasked with going undercover for an indeterminate amount of time. “There are others like me, in all branches of the German government.”
But he’d been assigned to the Gestapo, the most ruthless arm of Hitler’s military. If he was found out, Gabrielle shook her head, hardly able to comprehend what the Nazis would do to him.
How lonely his life must be, how utterly isolated he must feel. A decade away from family and friends, with only himself to rely on. No confidante. No helpmate. No partner. How well she understood his burdens. And yet, his sacrifice made hers seem small.
“You must forget what I just told you.”
She smiled through her tears, realizing she wasn’t crying for herself anymore. Or not only for herself, but also for him, and the uncertainty of his future. “I am very good at keeping secrets from the Germans.”
“It is not only the Germans you must avoid.” He took her hands. “There are people in the British government who will do whatever it takes to ensure my cover is never blown. You understand what I’m saying?”
She thought, maybe, she did. His trust in her was humbling. She owed him the same. And told him of her resistance work.
“I know. Your father-in-law gave you up.”
“Max... He—Oh, Max.”
“He told me only after I helped him escape across the border. Before I handed him over to the British, he asked me to watch over you.”
“You helped Max escape France?” There was wonder in her voice, relief.
He went on to explain how Kriminalkommissar Mueller earned his reputation. People did, indeed, disappear once he took them into custody. But instead of executing them, or sending them to the camps, he’d been providing safe passage across the border.
“You save them all?”
“I do what I can. It is not always enough. Choices have to be made. I fail too often and succeed not enough. So, again, I will say, for your safety, Gabrielle, you must tell no one who I really am.”
She understood the stakes. And yet, found herself asking, “What is your real name?”
“You can only know me as Wolfgang Mueller.”
She remembered the coded telegrams. He’d been protecting her since his arrival. “Why watch over me?” she asked. “Is it only because Max asked it of you?”
“Have you not guessed?” The tenderness in his eyes was that of a man struggling with a depth of caring. “It hit me the first time I saw you. Your fierceness, your strength of character. You stood on that sidewalk and looked me straight in the eye. You never buckled, never wavered. Not then. Not at the table when your grandmother told the same story three times. Not later that night, in this cave, at this very wall, when I openly questioned its construction.”
“I never understood why I couldn’t hate you,” she admitted. “I wanted to. At times, I think maybe I did. But I couldn’t hold on to the emotion for long. I think, perhaps, despite that wretched uniform, I sensed the light in you, some part of me recognized the man you truly are.”
He placed her palm flat against his heart, held it there with his own. “Although you have only known me as your enemy, I have admired your courage from the start. I—”
A moan from the lieutenant cut him off midspeech. “You need to go now.”
Gabrielle followed the direction of his gaze. “What do you plan to do with him?”
“I am very good at making people disappear.” He glanced at the hole in the wall. “I will also fix that.”
She asked one more question, this one about her mother. “You will let her go now?”
“I’m afraid matters are not that simple. She is the prime suspect in von Schmidt’s disappearance.”
“She didn’t kill him. I have proof.” Gabrielle showed him the page she’d ripped out of Josephine’s journal.
His eyes narrowed over the paper. “It’s possible von Schmidt ran, but it will take me time to investigate.” He turned thoughtful, tapped his fingertips against his thigh. “All right. Let’s say I solve the mystery of his disappearance, and your mother is exonerated. There is still the matter of her falsified papers and her Jewish heritage. The lieutenant may have told others besides me.”
Closing her eyes, Gabrielle took a deep gulp of air. “My mother is as good as dead.”
“Your mother must disappear, the sooner the better.”
Gabrielle knew he was right. She didn’t like it, but she knew Hélène would never be safe in France with the Nazis in control. “Will you let me see her one last time?”
He didn’t respond, but there was an instant of connection, of understanding between them, before he went, with economy and grace, like a panther, to the spot where he’d propped up the lieutenant. After checking for a pulse, nodding slightly, he secured the man’s feet, retied his hands, covered his mouth, then tied him to a wine barrel.
Returning to Gabrielle, he took her arm. “Come with me.”
He led her through the labyrinth of corridors, his hold light, barely a suggestion of touch. She didn’t realize he was granting her request, not fully, until they left the château, traveled to Reims, and she was standing outside her mother’s jail cell with his whispered warning ringing in her ears. “The walls in this building have ears.”
He left them alone, his trust in her complete.
Gabrielle would honor that faith and heed his warning. She wrapped her hands around the bars and said, “Maman.”
Chapter Forty-Four
Hélène
Someone was calling her.
She heard it again.
“Maman.” Hélène bolted upright.
At the sight of Gabrielle’s drawn face, the breath went out of her in a slow, painful exhalation. She felt surprise, shock even, that her daughter stood on the opposite side of the jail cell. She hadn’t been arrested, then. And, despite the events earlier in the day, Paulette hadn’t been arrested, either.
Both her daughters were safe.
Hélène wanted to sing praise to the Lord, to show her faith in worship. She’d heard Detective Mueller quote the Nuremberg Laws earlier, the ones that condemned Hélène for being a Mischling of the first degree who’d attended synagogue with her father. The same laws also pardoned her daughters because of their diluted blood. Part of her knew only bliss—Gabrielle and Paulette were safe—but part of her knew great sadness. Gabrielle was here to say goodbye.
She would accept this unexpected gift. And return it with one of her own, words that should have been said years ago. “You are the daughter I never deserved, but the one who brings me the greatest joy. Live well, ma fille. Love hard. And always let the Lord be your guide and your light.”
With a grief-stricken cry, Gabrielle reached through the bars and enfolded their hands. It was then that Hélène noticed the scarf around her daughter’s neck. It was a nice touch that highlighted her gray-green eyes. Now was not a time to discuss fashion.
They didn’t speak of von Schmidt’s disappearance. They didn’t speak of the labor camps or the fate of a woman with Jewish blood in her veins or why the police station was empty but for a single guard from the French police. They spoke only of the man they both loved. “Your father would be proud of the woman you’ve become.”
“I miss him, still,” she whispered, her eyes bright with the tears she fought valiantly to hold
at bay. “I will miss you, I think, even more.”
Hélène’s heart ached at the knowledge that Gabrielle knew her flaws, knew the sins she’d committed, and still gave her no condemnation. She had to bite the inside of her lip then, to stop herself from breaking. “You cannot know how honored I am to call you my daughter and how very much I love you.”
“I love you, too, Maman.” The voice came at her like a dream, just a little hazy, a little distant. “You will survive this.”
She knew she wouldn’t. There was no more fight left in her. Sighing softly, she pulled her hands away, reached up to touch her daughter’s cheek. “I have one final request.”
“Whatever it is,” Gabrielle said, “ask. I will do it.”
“Send Paulette to Paris, to my friend Mademoiselle Ballard.” The obscure yet talented fashion designer had been one of Hélène’s closest friends, and far too mercenary to shut down her atelier during the war. “She will employ the girl in her shop and teach her skills that will serve her after the war.”
“Why do you protect her still?” Gabrielle asked, a chill in her voice. “When she is the reason you are locked in this cage?”
“It is as much my fault as it is hers. I told her my secret. That was my mistake.”
“Why, Maman? Why did you tell her?”
Hélène had asked herself the same question many times today. The answer never changed. “I had hoped she would understand the reason she needed to end her liaison with Lieutenant Weber. She did not break off the affair.”
“I’m not surprised.”
Unsure how to interpret Gabrielle’s tone, Hélène told her how Paulette had turned to her beau. “She thought he loved her enough to help me. She made a terrible mistake trusting him.”
Despite her momentary recoiling, and the look of judgment that filled her eyes, Gabrielle merely nodded.
Hélène thought about how broken Paulette had been, sitting beside her in this cell. The remorse in her posture, in her words—they had been real. Would her shame be enough to change a lifetime of selfish regard for no one but herself? “She cannot stay in Reims. Detective Mueller let her go because of her French blood. By definition, she is not a Jew. The laws protect her, both of you, but the lieutenant may press the issue of your complicity in my lies.”