by Ellen Butler
Next to the mattress lay a pile of neatly folded clothes consisting of a black sweater with a few moth-eaten holes around the neckline, a pair of black knee socks, and a brown skirt that fell to my calf. The photo of David’s sweetheart lay on top of the stack. My leather boots had been left sitting at the end of the bed, next to the stove, and though they were still damp on the inside, I pulled them on and laced them over the knit socks. A quick check of the secret pocket inside my coat revealed the remaining Reichsmark and David’s dog tag.
With a sense of dread, I slid the heel of the boot aside and found the cavity damp but not full of water as I had expected. The film cartridge fell into my hand, and I shook it, listening for the slosh of liquid. Nothing. Perhaps the film was not ruined after all. My heart lightened. The possibility that the intelligence could be salvaged provided me the incentive I needed to keep moving forward with my plan. Gently, I placed the dog tag on top of the film and slid the sole back in place. The rest of the pockets were empty, the mittens nowhere to be found, probably left behind with the rucksack. I shrugged on the coat and returned the gun to its original location before climbing the steps.
The door opened to reveal a dark entryway of stone floor and what must have been the doorway where the old woman had found me. To my left and right were unlit passageways—the glow of the cellar brazier didn’t reach past the top of the steps—and I hesitated, squinting into the darkness, trying to decide which way to go. A soft shuffling sound on my right had the hair on the back of my neck standing on end, and I stepped quickly in the opposite direction.
“Is that you, young one?” The old woman’s voice carried hollowly down the passage, and even when she came around a corner and her lantern shed light, my heart remained tippy-tapping in my chest. Her disturbing witch-like looks were not made to set one at ease. “Follow me.”
I followed the shuffling figure down a narrow hallway. This was the strangest house I’d ever seen, consisting of long halls covered with timbered walls, some showing blackened scorch marks, and no doorways leading into other rooms as expected. Finally, the woman drew aside a heavy curtain to reveal a room, not much bigger than the cellar I’d just come from. In it sat a wooden table with two long benches on either side. Another brazier, similar to the one in the basement, sat in a corner, and an old iron stove took up the center of the room. A copper teakettle and blackened pot each sat on a burner. There were no visible windows and the walls were made of packed dirt.
My heart no longer pounded—it had stopped completely—and I’m fairly certain all of the blood drained out of my head, for, at the table, drinking from a brown earthenware mug, sat a young German Feldwebel, sergeant first class, from a Panzer division if my eyes didn’t deceive me. And sitting at his elbow was a weapon I knew well, the Mauser K98k.
“Meet my grandson, Masselin. He is going to help you ... find your sister.” The lips pulled back to reveal an unpleasant gap-toothed smile.
Swell.
“Have a seat.” He indicated the bench across from him. “Mamè, get our guest something to eat. She looks ... peaked. Grand-mère tells me you are searching for your sister. What is her name?” He laid the cup down and rested his hand on the butt of the gun.
His weapon lay too close for comfort. If I made a move, it would turn into an old western-style quick-draw shootout, and though I had been trained with handguns, I had not done so with this exact model; I wasn’t so sure I’d win. Additionally, I had no idea if Masselin had friends nearby, in this strange house, to back him up. I decided it would be prudent to get a better lay of the land before making my next move.
The old woman shuffled over to the stove, but my gaze remained on the man across the table as I lowered myself onto the hard bench.
“H...h...” I cleared my parched throat and tried again. “H-helga. Helga Gersbach.” Gersbach was the surname I recalled from the documents taped to the painting at the colonel’s house. Helga came out of thin air. I committed both to memory instantly. This lie was now my cover and I would need to remain steadfast to it.
“Show him the picture.” The gnarled fingers plunked a steaming bowl of soup in front of me.
Reluctantly, I pulled the photo from my pocket and slid it across the table.
He studied the photo. “Very pretty. Très belle. And you are ...?”
“Ilse ... Ilse Gersbach.”
“I don’t recall a girl by the name of Gersbach working as a ... what was it you said?” the sergeant quizzed.
“Teacher,” I said between clenched teeth.
“Teacher.” He tapped a long, narrow finger against his chin. “What about you, Mamè, do you recall anyone named Gersbach teaching around here?”
“Non,” the old crone replied.
“She worked farther south, closer to Strasbourg.”
“Well, I’m sorry to tell you, Ilse, but that area has been captured by the French army. If indeed your sister was there, she is likely in their hands now. Who knows what has happened to her. Perhaps she is providing comfort to the enemy. Such a pretty girl...” He shrugged.
I didn’t reply to his insinuations, but I couldn’t help allowing my eyes to slide away from his obsidian gaze. He’d gotten his dark eyes from his wretched grandmother, if indeed she was his grandmother. We were playing a game of cat-and-mouse, and we both knew I was the mouse.
“Please, eat your soup.” He indicated the pottery dish at my elbow. “Never turn away a meal, I say. Not in such uncertain times.” He shifted, and the play of the light softened his sharp, hawk-like features, almost making them look pleasant, maybe even handsome.
I didn’t argue. He was correct. If I had any chance of getting away from him, I would need my strength and my wits about me. The soup tasted well-salted, with grains of rice, indeterminate vegetables, and a piece of gray meat bobbing around. It was the most difficult meal I’ve ever had to force down my gullet. He examined me, sipping from his mug, as I chewed the tasteless meat, swallowing with a painful gulp. It burned a path to my stomach, but I didn’t stop until only a thin layer of broth lay at the bottom of the bowl. My tablemate didn’t speak as I ate. At some point, I heard the old woman shuffle through the curtain, leaving me alone with her grandson, who, finishing his beverage, pushed away the mug and, removing his hand from the weapon, folded his arms in front of him.
It was the perfect opportunity to extricate myself. Maybe I wouldn’t even need to shoot him. Perhaps I could simply brandish it ... use it to threaten his poor grandmother’s life. My hand slid off the table into my lap.
“Your French is very good ... für eine Deutsche.”
I shrugged, replying nonchalantly, “Meine Großenltern waren Schweizer.” My grandparents were Swiss. “We visited often and learned the language.” The indifference was forced. I’d made a tactical error speaking the French of France to the old woman and continuing with this soldier. I should have adopted a German-accented French. As a native, Masselin would eventually realize this.
“Finished?” The woman had returned on silent feet and spoke at my shoulder, startling me enough that I jerked.
The soldier’s question had thrown me off, and his hand again rested on the weapon. I’d missed my moment to escape. “Oui, thank you it was ... filling.”
She removed the bowl. “Can you help our guest, Masselin? Surely there is something you can do? Someone you can speak with?”
“Oui, Mamè, do not worry, I will help your beautiful little guest find her sister. Come.” He rose and held out a hand to help me. “It is time we went.”
Those long fingers were not ice cold, as I expected, but quite warm; however, their strength was undeniable as they clamped around mine and pulled me upright.
Chapter Thirteen
Friend or Enemy
Upon exiting, I realized the reason for the strange home; it was a shelter, or bunker, built into the earth.
“My grandfather constructed it during World War One.” Slinging the rifle over his shoulder, Masselin answered the u
nasked question.
Our breaths hung in the steely, frigid air, and a thin coating of powdery snow disguised the landscape, giving a crisp crunch beneath our feet as we walked. “Where are you taking me?”
“To my superiors, of course. They can help you locate your Schwester.” He gave more emphasis to the last word.
I pulled my hand from his grip, retrieved the gun, and leveled it at him. “Unfortunately, I’m afraid this is where we must part. I have no interest in meeting your superiors or experiencing their ... hospitality. I’ll find my sister on my own.”
He eyed the revolver and smiled. “Now we come to it. That is a very pretty weapon you are carrying. American ... no? Have you any idea how to use it?”
I cocked the hammer with my thumb and continued to keep it steadily pointed at his chest.
“Indeed.” His brows knit. “How does a pretty girl come to be carrying a weapon such as this? I ask myself.”
“Not that it is any of your business, but I found it on a dead pilot.”
He tilted his head, scrutinizing me, and asked in a lazy tone, “And how did you become so adept with it?”
“A single girl must learn to protect herself in times of upheaval. I have no interest in providing comfort to the enemy.”
“But who, Mademoiselle, is your enemy?”
My eyelids closed to slits. “Anyone who gets in my way.”
“Quite the mercenary, I see.” A smirk drew across his face. “Okay, I believe you are looking for your sister. I even believe the story of how you acquired the gun. Now, please put it away unless you want to get shot by one of my brethren.”
“I feel more comfortable with it out.” I’d been sidestepping around him as we spoke, and he’d rotated with me, keeping a sharp eye on the weapon. “If you would be so kind as to turn around, put your hands up, and get down on your knees, we can both be on our way.”
“And let you bang me on the back of the head with it?” He shook his head with a tsk. “I do not think so. It would be counterproductive for the both of us and probably give me a wretched headache. Now, do you wish for my help finding your sister ... or not?”
The verbal sparring with this man was stretching my nerves to the limits. I couldn’t haul off and shoot him for fear of bringing his friends down upon us. Moreover, the Maginot Line could not be far away, and I needed help getting past the French bunker system. The first line of defense against the Germans, now used by the Germans against the Allied advance. I couldn’t tell if he would really help me or if he was manipulating me. His grandmother had been helpful, providing clothes and food. But Masselin was an enigma. Whose side was he on? I wavered, lowering the gun a bit.
“Mademoiselle, you really haven’t a choice. One shout from me will bring more soldiers than you can handle, and you’d never make it past the Maginot Line without me. If I am to help, we must go.” His eyes darted furtively left and right. “Now.”
A decision had to be made. As a spy, I’d learned that sometimes I had to put my life into the hands of others. As much as it irritated me, I had to trust Masselin. I uncocked the gun, shoved it back into my pocket, and indicated, with my other hand, for him to lead the way.
We hadn’t gone more than a dozen meters before our party of two expanded to four. Masselin had been helping me over a ridge when a pair of soldiers flanked us.
They saluted one another with offhand “Heil” as if they’d done it a thousand times and gave little thought to the words being spoken.
“Sergeant, how was your Grand-mére?” The young Gemeiner, private, addressed us in French. He wore little round glasses and his slight figure came up to my chin.
“She is well. What are you doing here?” Masselin’s face didn’t change from its insouciant mien. However, I couldn’t help noticing the subtle stiffening of his shoulders, and the grip on my hand tightened almost painfully before being released.
“Patrol.” The private eyed me up and down. “Is this her?”
“Her? Who do you speak of, my friend?”
“The spy the SS is looking for. They are saying a British spy has been sending radio transmissions. Although they reported her farther north.” He adjusted his soldier’s cap.
Masselin laughed. “Calm your imagination, Gilles. Mamè has a penchant for taking in strays. The fräulein washed up on her doorstep in the middle of the night looking like a drowned kitten.”
“She has papers?” the other soldier, a Gefreiter, a corporal, asked. This soldier was a different kettle of fish from the private, he was a few inches taller than Masselin’s six feet, and a puckered scar ran across his left cheekbone from nose to ear. The scar, still pink from healing, was obviously a war injury. But it wasn’t the scar that made me distrust him on sight. His dark eyes, set too close together, held a look of pure malevolence, whether directed at me or Masselin, I couldn’t be sure. It sent a chill down my spine.
“Burned in a bombing raid.” Masselin shrugged.
“Fräulein, you are in the middle of a bad situation. What are you doing here?” Gilles addressed me in German.
“She is looking for her sister, a teacher farther south. She’s gone missing,” Masselin continued in German.
The private shook his head. “A bad place to go. Your sister is probably dead. You should return home.”
“She is aware of the danger and apparently ready for it.” Masselin’s gaze swept me up and down, pausing for a moment at the pocket secreting the gun.
“Taken in by another pretty face, Masselin?” the corporal grumbled in French. He took a drag on the cigarette dangling from the side of his mouth.
“Non, I promised Grand-mére I would help her young friend.” He refused to look my way, and I cocked my head, still wondering about his motives and my safety. When it came down to it—would he help me or save his own skin?
“How can you be so sure this isn’t the spy they are looking for?” Smoke blew out the corporal’s nose. “She fits the description.” He spoke the last in German and his cold stare rested on me.
My stiff fingers curled around the cold grip of the gun in my pocket, and Masselin’s jaw clenched.
“Non, they said she had black hair ... and a limp. Remember?” Gilles interrupted in French.
I sucked in a breath but schooled my features not to react. My wrenched ankle had improved since leaving the ramshackle hunting box days ago, but after a few hours of walking, no doubt the limp would return. I had no idea where they’d gotten the black hair.
“Quiet, you fool,” the corporal admonished in the same language.
Gilles clamped his mouth shut.
“She speaks French,” Masselin said dryly.
Both the men froze and turned to stare.
“Almost better than you, Lars,” he addressed the corporal.
“A strange girl, with no papers, who speaks French and German.” Lars removed the cigarette. “And do you speak English as well?” he asked in stilted and highly accented English.
I refused to rise to the bait, instead returning his hard stare with an innocent one of my own. “Would you like to see the photograph of meine Schwester?” I pulled the photo out of my left coat pocket, leaving my right hidden with the weapon.
Lars glanced at the photo and grunted. “It proves nothing.”
Gilles stepped in front of Lars to see. The older man towered above the skinny private. He took it from my hand and squinted down at it. “Strong family resemblance, don’t you think? Same eyes and nose.” Holding it up to Lars, he pointed with a dirty finger.
Lars refused to look at it; his gaze remained steady on me.
Masselin snatched the photo from the private and handed it back to me. “Enough. Granted, Ilse is not where she should be, but who is? Clearly, she doesn’t meet the description of this spy you’ve heard about, what, third-, fourth-, fifth-hand?”
“We were briefed this morning. They’re calling her the Black Widow,” Gilles whispered.
Masselin’s eyes sliced to me, then quickly
away. “And, Gilles, do you believe this your spy?”
Gilles shook his head. “Nein.”
“But it is not up to Gilles, or you, Sergeant,” Lars said in a silky voice.
I went to pull the gun out of my pocket, but Masselin’s hard grip on my elbow stayed my hand.
“And it is up to you ... Gefreiter?” Masselin said, reminding the man of his lower rank. “She is a German. Do you suggest we subject this innocent to an SS interrogation? Throw her to the Gestapo dogs?” he snarled.
The corporal’s eyes narrowed; he gave a calculating stare before answering, “Nein.”
“Then what are you suggesting?”
“Simply bring her back to headquarters. If her story is true ... perhaps we can help the young lady find her sister ... or failing that, return her home.”
Not for an instant did I believe Lars’s intentions toward me were so benign.
Masselin’s jaw flexed, and his fingers dug into my flesh so hard I almost cried out.
“Unless, for some reason, you object?” Lars stared down his bulbous nose at his superior officer.
Masselin barely hesitated, “Nein. A trip to headquarters would not be untoward.”
My heart dropped. Masselin was an enigma no longer; this man would be my downfall. My trust had been ill-given. I fought his tight grip, trying to pull the weapon out, but his greater strength barred me from doing so. My hand was jammed so far down I couldn’t even manipulate the position of the weapon to get it pointed somewhere other than at my shoe.
“Gilles, finish your patrol. The corporal and I will take the lady back to headquarters.”
Gilles’ kindly eyes surveyed each of us. “Be careful,” he mumbled before taking off in the direction from which he’d come.
“Lead the way, Corporal.”
The soldier hesitated, obviously disliking the thought of having Masselin at his back.
“I insist,” Masselin purred.
Lars gripped his weapon tightly before turning and walking in the opposite direction of Gilles.
Masselin released my elbow. His breath brushed my ear. “Not now.”