“How can I help you, my son?” came a soft voice from beyond the dividing screen.
The serenity that had blanketed Beck moments before erupted into full-blown rage. Not trusting himself to speak, he tore through the curtain and stalked out of Notre Dame on stiff, wooden legs, ashamed at the peace he’d allowed to soften him.
Becker must have veered off the beaten track as he made his way back to the Gare du Nord that evening, several beers warm in his gut and his mind filled with the architectural wonders of the ancient city. It was nearly 11 p.m. when he found himself staring at a long cobblestone street lined on both sides with Paris’s women of the night, hookers who stood in doorways wearing little more than fishnet stockings and shreds of cloth as the night’s temperatures descended toward freezing. The prostitutes called him and pouted at him and posed for him as he walked by. He saw a couple johns, both of them engaged in bargaining for the favors they desired, their language faintly slurred, their stance a little less than steady. Beck took a better look at the second john as he passed him. He seemed to be about forty. His cologne smelled expensive. He was clean-shaven and dressed for a respectable job. The man glanced at Beck and shouted, “What’re you lookin’ at?” Beck changed sidewalks and walked more briskly, eager to reach the streetlamp at the end of the block. A hooker called out to him, offered him a discount, told him she liked his shoes. By the time he reached the brighter light of the intersection, he felt dirty, guilty by association, and scared out of his mind.
Beck spent the next three days in frenzied labor. He stopped only for a few hours of exhausted sleep in the middle of the night, then got up again and resumed his work. The banister, carvings, and steps were nearly finished. He’d checked and triple-checked them against the remaining elements of the original staircase and was fairly sure they would fit seamlessly. All that remained to be done was the staining and polishing that would give the new segments the same antique look as the rest of the woodwork. When he wasn’t in his office, Beck was lending a hand in every aspect of the labor being done around the château, climbing scaffolding, sanding floors, mixing wallpaper paste . . . whatever would keep him busy. And still the battle in his mind raged on.
The dining rooms were nearly finished too, with two and a half weeks to spare before Sylvia’s big party. The next item of business was to sand down the herringbone parquet and treat it again. The purpose here wasn’t to restore the wood to looking like new—Thérèse had decided that leaving it with some small signs of age and wear would only increase its visual appeal—but the new boards they had installed to replace the damaged ones needed to be blended in with the original wood, and the larger stains, some of them centuries old, needed to be sanded out.
Thérèse wasn’t in much better shape than Beck, though he couldn’t understand what had her so sullen. This should have been her favorite part of the project, the part when the heavy construction and renovation were finished and the interior decoration could begin in earnest, but she stalked around the castle giving one-word answers, shrilling orders, and making her displeasure known when things didn’t look the way she wanted them to.
There had been little communication between Beck and Jade since the saber incident. She had dutifully provided meals for him and been polite as she’d delivered them, but there hadn’t been any banter lately, no attempts to destabilize him by calling his bluffs as she had so many times before. She’d gotten another haircut—Beck had noticed that much—a short bob that framed her face. He suspected she’d had it dyed too—not that it was any of his business. It was just that with so little talking going on, all he had to occupy himself was observation.
The children, too, had been less than cordial, but he figured they weren’t much different than a beaten dog steering clear of people with sticks. They’d been hurt once by the big man they considered a hero, and they wouldn’t soon put themselves in a position for it to happen again. Beck realized the burned bridges that surrounded him—every single one of them—had been damaged by his own actions.
There was something else that had been plaguing him since his day in Paris. Something dark and sordid that had shaken his already-fragile equilibrium. He kept picturing the john bargaining with the prostitute on that ill-lit street in the city. The designer clothes. The appearance of confidence and charm. He’d seen a man who probably had all the earmarks of success yet had been reduced to paying hookers for company. The thought repulsed him, but no more than the easy parallel he could draw between that man and himself. The bottle was his gratuitous release, and he knew that when it failed to distract him and warm him, the Internet would become his fallback plan. Oh, he’d never spent hours on adult sites as some of his coworkers had, nor engaged in the salacious business of online depravity, but he’d taken a few glimpses of the alternate universe that provided escape for other wounded souls. Those brief brushes had left him feeling defiled. And yet—he knew it wouldn’t take much for him to join the ranks of those whose lives were captive to the perversion of their imaginations. One major failure. One jarring disappointment. One more crisis that couldn’t be medicated with overtime and rigid expectations. One day too many spent in self-imposed isolation.
Becker didn’t realize how deep-seated his fear was until he saw Jade alone in the kitchen one evening and submitted to the need to connect with her. He opened the door gingerly and gave her an “is it safe?” look. She turned from the grocery bags she was unpacking just long enough to acknowledge his presence, then got back to work. Becker stepped into the kitchen and closed the door behind him, determined to bridge the chasm that had caused their silence.
“What can I do to make things right with the kids?” he asked.
Jade’s hand stilled, then resumed its activity. “Why do you ask?”
“Because I know I . . .” He searched for the words. They weren’t a natural part of his vocabulary. “Because I think I hurt them.”
Jade turned and raised an eyebrow at him. “One small step for man . . . ,” she quoted.
“Is there—” A sudden thought halted his question. He glanced at the clock above the door. “Wait, what are you doing here? It’s after your normal hours, isn’t it?”
Jade carried a bag of lettuce and a wedge of Brie to the refrigerator, showing traces of the tiredness he’d come to recognize. “I won’t be here until late tomorrow morning. I have an appointment and Mrs. Fallon is keeping the kids. I figured I should do the grocery shopping tonight.” She turned around with a saucy look on her face. “Is that a problem?”
Beck smirked in spite of himself. Jade was of that rare breed of people who somehow managed to be endearing even on their ornery days. He raised his hands in surrender. “Hey, no problem at all. You haven’t missed a day since I’ve been here, so . . .” He ran out of things to say. And yet there was still so much that remained unspoken and urgent in his mind.
“You could begin by apologizing to them,” Jade said. “That goes a long way with kids.”
“Okay.”
“And none of that condescending ‘Hey, sorry, kid,’ approach either. They know when they’re being manipulated.”
Beck gave it some thought and concluded that she was probably right. Still—a heartfelt apology? To a six-year-old? This might take some scripting. He drew himself up short at that thought. Who needed a script to acknowledge a failure?
“And the work is progressing well?” Jade asked, trying to make a smooth transition away from more delicate matters and somehow managing to make it feel awkward instead.
“It’s . . .” Becker didn’t have the courage to attempt trivial conversation. There was too much else that needed words put to it to waste them on status updates and the weather.
“I want you to know that I get it,” he said, using up a good portion of whatever courage he still possessed. He leaned back against the fridge. “I get the alone thing.”
Jade moved to the table and sat on one of the stools, head propped on fists, listening with the kind of sincere concent
ration that made him feel . . . heard.
“And you’re right,” he continued. “Do you know how much I hate saying that?” He smirked. “You’re right. I’ve got two moods: cynical and angry.”
Jade finally smiled. “And don’t forget stupid. Philippe would vote for stupid.”
“And stupid.”
Jade turned her palms toward the ceiling and shook her head in confusion. “Why? How did you end up with only those two?”
“I don’t know.” From the way Jade looked at him, he could tell she knew he was lying. “But the payoff. The payoff isn’t exactly what I hoped it would be.”
“You thought this would be beneficial in some way?” Jade asked, amazed.
Beck pressed his lips together. “I saw a guy in Paris the other day.”
“I presume you saw more than one.”
He held up a hand. “Will you let me? Please.”
Jade wiped a film of perspiration from her upper lip and motioned for him to continue.
“This guy was . . . hiring a prostitute.” He saw Jade raise an eyebrow, but there was no judgment in her gaze. “And it occurred to me . . .” This was the type of conversation he’d seldom had before, and he couldn’t seem to find the right words or to phrase things that made sense.
“You’re doing fine,” Jade said, a small smile playing around her lips.
“And it occurred to me,” Beck said again, “that if I don’t do something drastic, I’m going to become him. I mean—not that I’d go out and hire a prostitute,” he quickly amended, “but . . . I could become the guy who’s so desperate for friendship that he has to buy it.” He paused. “I don’t know how to say this except that—I know I need to have . . . people. In my life.”
Jade stood and took a few steps toward him, stopping just in front of where he leaned against the fridge. “I think you’re right,” she said. Her eyes softened as she added, “And I think it’s good that you’ve gotten to this point—to the point of seeing your need.” Beck was about to respond, but she held up her hand to halt him. “But I’m not going to be your new best friend, Becker.”
He was stunned. And suddenly defensive. “That’s not what I was—”
“No, but I’m guessing it might have been your next conclusion. I know you’re lonely and I know you’re trying, but . . .”
“What?” Beck asked, frustration tightening his voice.
“I’m tired. And you . . .” She looked him straight in the eye, defying him to contradict her. “You are a drunk. A functional drunk, but a drunk. And you’re a coward who hides behind his anger to skim the surface of real life in the real world.” He opened his mouth to protest, but she shook her head and laid a gentle hand on his arm. “You want to hang out in the kitchen and shoot the breeze? I’m your girl. But I’ve got enough problems right now, and I can’t shoulder yours too. I can’t step into your stuff and help you carry it. Figure it out, Becker,” she said, using his name in a way that made his lungs constrict. “Do what you need to do to gain a foothold, and then do something about whatever it is that killed your spirit and left your body alive. And when you’ve figured it out—” she squeezed his forearm to make sure he knew she meant it—“I want to be your friend. But I’m not going to be your counselor, I’m not going to be your scapegoat, and I’m not going to be your priest.” She saw the anger hardening Becker’s gaze and said, “What? What are you angry about?”
Beck tried to control his voice, but the effort made it shake. “I come in here holding out an olive branch, and you tell me to get lost?” His breathing was faster with the effort of maintaining his cool. “You—”
The word he used seemed to hit Jade like a physical blow. She pulled back from him, immobile for a while, then went to the counter, stowing the grocery bags in their proper place and reaching for the light switch. “If I became your best friend right now—your Band-Aid—I’d only be taking the place of your bottle. And, Becker,” she added, expelling a sad breath, “I have more important things to do with my time.”
She flipped the switch.
JUNE 1944
MARIE AND ELISE sat in the paneled library on a June afternoon. They had been sitting in silence for a while, Marie lost in the pages of a Victor Hugo novel and Elise fiercely focused on the knitting stitches some of the other women had taught her. Once she perfected them, she’d begin on a pair of booties, using the green yarn that had just been delivered that week.
The two girls had finally become accustomed to their afternoon sessions in the library. When Elise had been admitted to the manor as a resident, the sudden switch of roles had thrown them both for a loop. Marie had remained an employee, while Elise had suddenly found her rank elevated from maid to loyalist. The baby that rounded her belly was a child of the Führer, and it had been her ticket into the opulent and leisurely lifestyle of the Lebensborn’s elite. After a couple weeks of utter boredom, Elise had finally requested that Marie be relieved of some of her duties in order to spend time with her. Koch had refused at first, but when Elise’s loneliness and the hormones coursing through her body had combined into several difficult emotional outbursts, he had relented. It was better to have a part-time domestic and a content expectant mother than to put up with the kind of drama that had disrupted the manor’s serenity on those occasions.
Elise glowed with pride and the faint flush of motherhood. The first time Marie had seen it, she’d correctly guessed that her friend had acted on her intentions, choosing to bear a Nazi child for the recognition and honor the Reich had promised. But while most of the unwed mothers who came to the manor to give birth had conceived their child with members of the SS, as per Himmler’s orders, the child Elise carried had been conceived with a German soldier of inferior rank. Because of this, there had initially been a bit of a scuffle about her admission to the program. The Lamorlaye Lebensborn preferred to limit its activities to the children of high-ranking officers. Mere soldiers in the Wehrmacht’s cavalry were only tolerated on-site if they were running brief errands, then swiftly departing, so hosting one of their mistresses posed a dilemma, particularly when the soldier in question submitted an official request to be allowed to spend extended time with Elise as her pregnancy progressed. A compromise had eventually been reached—Elise and her unborn child would become pampered residents of the manor, but her boyfriend, the soldier, would have to limit his presence to one short visit per week.
Of course, the process of being admitted to the Lebensborn hadn’t been an easy one. Frau Heinz first had to ensure Elise’s worthiness. She measured her face, eyes, and nose to make sure the young mother met Aryan standards. She compared strands of her blonde hair to charts that displayed acceptable shades. She also put the girl through a battery of tests to determine whether she would be able to carry the baby to term, since her youth increased the risks of her pregnancy.
The worst of the vetting process had been the requirement that she provide proof that there was no Jewish ancestry on either side of her family for three generations back. It was that stipulation that had orphaned Elise in the eyes of her family. In a single conversation, she’d had to inform her parents of her clandestine relationship with one of the Führer’s men, divulge her pregnancy, and request that they produce paperwork that would prove her flawless lineage. When she told Marie about it the next day, it was with copious tears.
“What did you expect?” Marie asked, patting her friend’s hand but shaking her head in disbelief.
“I don’t know!” Elise wailed, her emotions so far out of control that she hadn’t been able to reel them in for the better part of the past hour. “I guess I—” She hiccupped. “I hoped they would be happy. This is their grandchild!”
“Elise . . .”
“Don’t say it! I don’t want to hear it! This baby isn’t just a boche’s child—he’s my child too. With the man I love.”
“To whom you’re not even engaged . . .”
“That doesn’t matter! We love each other. And Himmler said that as long a
s we produce heirs to the Aryan race, there’s no such thing as moral or immoral. It’s a noble cause, Marie. It’s my duty as a . . .”
Marie frowned and pulled back a little to take a better look at her friend’s face. “As a what, Elise?”
“As a daughter of the Reich,” she said quietly.
Marie stood and took a couple steps back from her friend. Elise looked up and attempted a tremulous smile. Marie didn’t answer it. “Elise Dupuis, you are not a Nazi. You are not one of them!” Shock made her voice tremble. “You’re just as French as I am! We were born in the same hospital in Chantilly, we went to the same kindergarten and primary school, we had crushes on the same boys, and we both got jobs here when the Germans invaded Lamorlaye because it was the only way to provide for our families, but we’re not Nazis!”
“Speak for yourself,” Elise said, her face wet with tears but defiance tilting her chin a little higher.
Marie moved back to her friend’s side, desperate to say something that might change her thinking. She knelt in front of her chair and grasped Elise’s hands in her own. “Elise . . . they might give us extra rations and treat us kindly when we’re here, but they’re—they’re assassins. You’ve heard the rumors about Poland and Germany—the BBC says they’re all true! The massive arrests, the work camps, the public shamings . . . You must have heard the reports!”
“It’s all for the cause,” Elise said, her eyes sparking. “It’s all so the world can be rid of the vermin and restored to what it should have been!”
“You don’t mean that.” Marie sat back and stared into her friend’s face, looking for the smallest vestige of the girl she used to know. It was there—hidden under layers of a resolution born of necessity and fear.
“I do.”
“Why don’t you take some time to think? Call in sick and go back to your parents’ house for a while. They’ll help you to see . . .”
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