French Betrayal (Reich Triumphant Book 1)

by Vincent Dugan

  She arrived in the auditorium to find it more than half full, the exhibit splayed across the stage and Frida granted a small podium with microphone. She counted no women in the assembly and the motives for attendance became abundantly clear at the first exchange with one of the students.

  “Frau Essert.”

  “Fraulein Essert,” she corrected him, sparking excited murmuring around the auditorium.

  “Fraulein Essert.” The questioner was in uniform and from its near perfect condition she guessed he had been manning the Siegfried line in the west, preventing the “murderous” French from crossing the Rhine. “What is your view of Picasso?”

  The on point question helped her relax. The little Spaniard was heartily despised by Rosenberg and the Nazi cultural elitists. Frida naturally agreed with them, sputtering even if she did not know why. She touched her pleated skirt that hung below the knee, her neutral green jacket with white blouse something less than Nazi kitsch but properly hiding her femininity as best she could.

  Her denunciation of Picasso including waving a mimeographed copy of Guernica, the painting that irritated the Nazis the most as it blamed them for the necessary bombing of a village. Her presentation was followed closely by Professor Schulz, who had introduced her then remained uncomfortably close by, his hands clenched as if preparing to punch the little Spanish degenerate. The audience was rapt even as she noticed some glazing of the eyes when she labeled Cubism as an undermining of the Teutonic symbolism of hearth and home and a distortion of the Aryan ideal. Their attention returned when she stepped from behind the podium, granting the men a view of her legs, the only uncovered part of her body.

  “The correct art portrays the subject with a realism that sets a standard for the viewer to follow. The Jewish-Bolshevik inspired art presents the distorted image, the outsized human figure, destroying the proper concept of the male and female form and which it the Aryan ideal.” It was a much practiced speech, one in tune with her display of the hated “modern” art. The assembled faces, though, ignored the example of degenerate art and remained focused on her.

  A hand shot up, an outlier, a fervent face, sweaty and bespectacled. Frida motioned to the eager student as Professor Schulz leaned close to her, smell of gasoline threatening to clog her sinuses. “My best student,” he hissed, intended as a compliment but serving as a warning to Frida.

  “What about Houston Stewart Chamberlain?” The bespectacled favorite yelped, drawing a groan from the audience. A teacher’s favorite and fanatic drew out the worst in students.

  Frida barely heard the question, her own gaze diverted by the figure standing beside the fanatic. He would have fit tidily in one of Rosenberg’s propaganda posters. The fanatic’s question had trailed off, leaving silence and Frida grasping for a plausible answer. She feared sparking a debate with him, lengthening the session and drawing the malodorous professor even closer. Worse was saying something that might sound like criticism of Chamberlain, a Brit who may have been more responsible than even Rosenberg for Nazi ideology. Taking a deep breath Frida tried to disarm the fanatic.

  “Chamberlain is the father of the movement even as his influence has been overshadowed by Mein Kampf and the Myth of the Twentieth Century. Some would say his influence is tertiary.” Fifty pfennig words could confuse even the most dedicated fanatic while convincing him she knew what she was say. “The division between degenerate art and wholesome art requires little training because of the feelings it generates. One knows good art when one feels it such as the Aryan ideal of motherhood, beauty, dedication to -.”

  “Such as you.” The call from the audience drew stares. Frida followed them to locate the speaker and found it to be the attractive beast standing beside the fanatic.

  “I have been told that,” she said, smiling and drawing laughs from the audience. “What is your name?”

  The question provoked jealousy in every other man in the room. “Tersten Holbricht,” he replied, drawing nervous laughs from the others. They regretted the shyness that had stilled their tongues.

  Frida motioned. “Herr Holbricht, mount the stage.”

  A groan swept across the crowd. Tersten was never one to put close to your woman as they usually swooned and forgot their drab mate when compared to Holbricht the great. Frida Essert was about to join Tersten’s stable of eager female company.

  With a few quick movements he was on stage, facing Frida, his smile a sign he was already the victor. It would not last long as Frida held up a reproduction of Dali’s Persistence of Memory. “What is wrong with this supposed work of art?”

  Tersten eyed her then the painting, her tone and posture suggesting something less than complete surrender to his charms. He swallowed hard then turned to his classmates. “It must be very hot, all of the clocks have melted.” He grinned as the audience snickered, a sharing of his unconventional disdain for the degenerate arts.

  Frida was not laughing. “And Chamberlain,” she said. “What is your opinion of him?”

  Tersten shrugged. “He is a fine British prime minister.”

  A yelp sounded from the crowd followed by a low, dangerous murmur. Tedious or otherwise the degenerate arts were part of Nazi lore and public ridicule directed toward the idea always had consequences.

  Frida managed a pained smile, his dismissal of a revered figure in Germany sparking an ember of rebellion in her. “In the Myth of the Twentieth Century, Herr Rosenberg states the proper role of German women is expanding the Aryan nation.” She raised her chin at him. “Is that what you believe? Should I be home caring for my children rather than teaching you?”

  Tersten’s smile disappeared. He was wise enough to know whatever his answer trouble was certain to follow. Staring hard at Frida his words jolted her. “Nein. Your duty to the fatherland is here.”

  Frida took a step back as Tersten extended his arm and howled, “Heil Hitler.” His classmates followed then chimed in as he began with Deutschland Uber Alles and the lecture on degenerate art became a patriotic rally. She continued to retreat, bumping into Professor Schulz, who had joined the singing, tears wetting his cheeks. He spotted the discarded Dali poster and raced over to it, raising his shoe and delivering a stamp, voice rising as the room howled out the second verse.

  Deutsche Frauen, deutsche Treue,

  Deutscher Wein und deutscher Sang

  Sollen in der Welt behalten

  Ihren alten schönen Klang,

  Uns zu edler Tat begeistern

  Unser ganzes Leben lang.

  German women, German loyalty,

  German wine and German song

  Shall retain in the world

  Their old beautiful chime

  And inspire us to noble deeds

  During all of our life.

  It was a paean to the German female and as Tersten’s tenor slid across the words he nodded at Frida, his demonstration that he believed what he said. Eventually the singing died out, the students unfamiliar with the latter verses and lacking the fuel of alcohol to continue. The students began filing out, their interest in Frida stomped on much like the Dali poster, the woman in the clutches of the most attractive and popular man at the college. She faced Tersten, his grin returning.

  “It was not bad?” He asked. “What I said?”

  Frida tried to ignore him, gathering the posters of degenerate art from their stands though the one attacked by the professor was beyond saving. She began rolling them into a tight cylinder but the slick paper slid beneath her fingers, the length growing unwieldy. Tersten laughed at her struggles. “Let me.” He grasped the papers and within moments they were tight and fit easily into the cardboard container, ready for shipment to Berlin. He handed it to Frida, who nearly dropped the offering, her hands trembling. “You should not have done that.”

  “It was easy.” Tersten mimed rolling the posters.

  “Nein, nein, what you said. It will be reported.”

  A shrug, Tersten undaunted by the possibility of a visit from the SS. “The
y will say it is my father talking.” He tapped his head, rolling his eyes as he made a face.

  Frida squinted, gauging whether he was playing a joke but saw his smile was more pained than humorous. “Your father?”

  “He killed himself that is why they keep me here.”

  The squint deepened. “Keep you here?”

  “The mental hygiene law. I cannot join the security services or the army. One day they may come for me regardless of what I say.”

  A chill rushed through her, the happy, joking young man had a dangerous side and it appeared without warning. She was relieved the professor had remained close by though Tersten’s dark side dissipated as quickly as it appeared.

  “You are staying in Leipzig?” He asked, reaching for her.

  Frida recoiled and his arm flopped to his side. “I am catching a train to Berlin.”

  A sliver of the darkness returned to his face. “Will you return to Leipzig?”

  Her immediate response would have been a shouted “Nein” but Frida could not ignore the familiar pain in his eyes. He did not fit within the Nazi ideal. She understood the pain well and his “Nein” in front of his classmates, some of whom were likely SS informers, had sparked a feeling of comradery with him. “Yes,” she murmured with little idea how or when she would be returning. She glanced back at the professor, locked in a conversation with the little fanatic, then reached toward him, her arm projected for him to touch. Tersten brushed flesh, smiling, eyes gleaming. He was no longer the public comic but rather the earnest suitor. For a flash she was reminded of Rudolf, their brief courting and even briefer marriage.

  The odor of gasoline marked the approach of the professor and Frida pulled away from Tersten. “I must return to the train station,” she said, expression flat and stony. Tersten remained smiling and he watched as the remainder of her material was gathered. Professor Schulz worked hard, hopeful for contact which would not come. Instead she strode toward the exit, pausing for a moment to glance then nod at Tersten, his nod in response a stronger signal than a thousand words. She would be dreaming of him for the next few nights and soon their dreams would merge.

  IV

  April 5, 1940

  “Fiorenza.” Lisle dangled her cigarette between her thumb and index finger. “She is pretty?”

  Etienne lay beside her, in Lisle’s bed, arm covering his eyes, sweat drenching the pillow beneath his head, chest struggling with each breath, legs threatening to cramp. Lisle had driven him to the edge with their biweekly afternoon session. A brush of his arm set him to blinking. “Pardon?”

  “Fiorenza,” Lisle repeated. “She is beautiful?”

  “You have seen her, at the Baron’s party.”

  Lisle, bare, sweaty, dangerous, pulled aside his arm and peered hard into his eyes. “I ask you or does my opinion guide your decisions?” She gingerly poked his chest, fingernail making him flinch.

  “She is beautiful,” Etienne said without feeling. He needed to change the subject, unable to adjust to his mistress asking of his wife.

  “You married her because of her beauty?”

  Etienne wriggled beneath the crouching figure. “I married her for her beauty.”

  Lisle laughed, head bent back, neck on full display, Etienne swallowing hard, wetting his lips with anticipation. “You are lying,” she declared, rolling from him, flopping onto her back and picking out another cigarette from her holder. She lay beside Etienne, blowing smoke and giggling at the results. Etienne returned to his recovery. He needed a drink and a nap, and to forget the details of his “engagement” and “proposal.”

  “Why did you ask her to marry?” Lisle turned, head propped up on her hand.

  Etienne groaned. He had begun to wish Lisle would find her next husband. Six months had elapsed since the Baron died and she remained unattached, a dangerous condition for Etienne; their Monday and Thursday afternoon sessions an opportunity for her to release her frustrations, and he bore the brunt. “She is beautiful,” he murmured.

  Lisle released her smoke into his face, Etienne choking. “Why did she marry you?”

  Etienne let his arm flop to his side, lines along his mouth and forehead a sign of irritation. “I do not ask such things, and you should not ask such things.”

  His anger only tantalized her, a few drags on her cigarette allowed Lisle’s mind to work, and she turned to Etienne. “What is the story?” She touched his arm. “Do not hide things from me. I have known you for how long?”

  “Since after the war.”

  “The war,” she looked past him into her memory. “I was how -.” She paused. “Seventeen.”

  Etienne perked up, his first meeting with Lisle was memorable and pleasurable. “Seventeen,” he murmured, the image of a young Lisle, ripe from a distance, dangerously irresistible as she neared.

  “And you were?”

  Etienne waved his hand. “It does not matter.”

  Lisle giggled, stubbing out her cigarette and again straddling his bare body. “You were thirty-five, your father said it.” She wagged her finger much like the eldest Descoteaux did at Etienne. “He did not like me.”

  “He did not like Thierry.”

  “Thierry.” Lisle straightened. “I was with Thierry.”

  “You were engaged to Thierry.” Etienne could not forget the red faced rail magnate, lungs wheezing the odd breath, body tottering even as he had yet to reach sixty. It had been a chance meeting in Pontalier. Thiery funded right wing parties and the eldest Descoteaux had belonged. Thierry dragged his son from the village to meet important men. The moment he had spotted the struggling man and his consort, Etienne had been dazzled. The girl’s presence taunted every woman with the knowledge she could steal their husbands and every man that she could steal their hearts, heads and wallet. The full lips, exceptional curves and surprising intellect dazzled, but it was her eyes that trapped him, doe like then but piercing as she aged. Watching the couple Etienne had wondered how long before the industrialist collapsed from the strain of such a creature.

  “Thierry,” Lisle absently wiped away a nonexistent tear. “So sad, I was such a young widow.”

  “Eighteen,” Etienne murmured. “Our first time together was the Thursday past your birthday.” He squinted to aid his recall. “But it happened on your celebration.”

  Lisle nodded, struggling to offer a mournful appearance. “That is why I am celibate on my celebration.” She shook her head. “It is too hard.” She touched Etienne. “It was that afternoon, Thiery died, we were together.”

  Etienne could not forget though celibacy had not been on Lisle’s mind that afternoon, which was the start of their Thursdays together. “Eighteen years,” he murmured.

  Lisle wriggled until she lay along the entire length of Etienne. “It has been nice.” She kissed his chin.

  He sighed, secrets too hard to contain. “I tell you but you tell no one else.” He squeezed another pillow beneath his head to allow him to look directly into his eyes.

  “I tell no one.” Lisle’s eyes fluttered, he could trust her.

  Etienne swallowed hard. “I did not ask Fiorenza to marry me.” He watched her but Lisle did not flinch. “She announced our engagement at my celebration in front of her family. She bought the ring.”

  Lisle lay with her lips pursed. Her body began to jerk as tears ran down her cheeks. Sliding from him and onto her back she clutched her stomach, giggling becoming laughter becoming hiccups. Her good humor was soothed only by a bottle of water. As she drank Lisle rolled from her bed and stood over Etienne, her bare body distracting him.

  “Fiorenza,” she exclaimed. “My girl, she has it all.”

  “It is not amusing.”

  “It is.” Lisle grabbed her sides and bent at the waist. “I must meet this girl. She is determined.”

  “It is not amusing,” Etienne exclaimed. “Do not laugh, she is my wife.”

  “She is your wife.”

  “And I love her.” Lisle had straightened, her entire frame
beckoning to him. “She is beautiful,” Etienne added.

  Lisle returned to the bed, fingers poking him absentmindedly. “Have you met Il Duce?”

  Etienne squinted, puzzled by the change of topic. “Yes,” he murmured. “Professionally.” He grimaced. “Not because of Fiorenza. She is a distant relative. They don’t speak.”

  “Have you met Hitler?”

  He brushed away her fingers. “No.”

  “I have,” she bubbled. Lisle raised up, catching sight of his puzzlement. “I was in Hamburg, the ship.” She paused to allow the scene to sink in, even as Etienne drew a blank.

  “With the Count, our three year anniversary.” Her tone sharpened, Lisle’s adventures expected to be the focus of Etienne’s world.

  “I do not,” he said. “We do not see each other as much when you are married.”

  “We were together when I returned.” Disdain flowed easily from her. “I mentioned Hitler, he shook my hand.” She raised the offensive part. “This one.”

  Etienne blinked, searching his memory but a visit with Hitler was nowhere to be found. “I’m sorry.”

  “He liked me,” Lisle tilted her head.

  “What?”

  “It was in his eyes, those blue eyes.” She shivered.

  “I do not want to think about it.” He snatched her hand and kissed it.

  “No, no, not that.” She kissed him. “I have a man, Grigori.”

  “Who?” Again a faulty memory left him groping.

  “Grigori.” She slapped him lightly on the shoulder. “The one I was with outside; you saw him.”

  A deeper frown from Etienne. “Grigori,” he repeated. An image flashed past him. “That boy is your new friend?” He chuckled. “He was what?”

  “Seventeen. My age with Thierry.”

  A line of sweat dripped onto Etienne’s right eye. He blinked it away. “He is the Russian.”