by Ellen Butler
Conflicting emotions warred within me, but we walked not more than a dozen steps before encountering a squad of soldiers. Masselin had basically warned me that I was surrounded. If I was to get out of this mess, it would be with flirtation and savvy talk, not with a gun. We loaded into the back of a transport truck along with half a dozen soldiers.
Chapter Fourteen
Interrogation
Sunlight peeked through the slits of the dark curtains covering the window of the second-floor room where I found myself sitting across from Hauptmann Müller. I guessed the captain was the commanding officer of this Panzer unit. His slouching posture and drawn features spoke of heavy worries and fatigue. His expression wasn’t hard, yet neither was it yielding. The candle on the table between the two of us flickered, creating grotesque shadows on the wood-paneled walls. We’d retained our coats because the barren fireplace remained unlit and there didn’t seem to be any other sort of heating source; however, the room provided more warmth than the outdoors. Two soldiers stood behind me; I’d been separated from Masselin and Lars.
I hadn’t been searched, and the weapon remained in my pocket, but the odds weren’t looking good for making a successful escape using the gun. Fear had my stomach in tight knots and my mouth arid. I licked my lips in an effort to disperse the bone dryness.
“Zigaretten?” Müller held out a half full pack.
I took one. “Danke.”
Normally, I wasn’t a smoker; I found the taste wholly repulsive. However, in the past few years, I’d found it to be an excellent socially acceptable habit that created opportunities for targeted introductions in addition to allowing me the excuse to loiter in places I otherwise shouldn’t. The benefits outweighed the costs and I’d inured myself to the disgusting flavor. It took all my efforts to hold the ciggy steady when placing it in my mouth.
The officer flicked a match and leaned forward to light mine before lighting his own. I took a drag and blew it out. The bitter Turkish flavor disconcerted me, but I schooled my features to remain bland, then crossed my legs and sat back in the chair with what I hoped to be an air of insouciance.
He cupped his cigarette working-class style between his cracked and callused fingers. “Now, fräulein, why don’t you tell me your story.” His blond hair, oily from lack of washing, swept across his high forehead, and he pushed aside several slick strands that fell into his eyes.
I told my cover story with calm deliberation. When I got to the part about my sister the teacher, I slid the worn photograph across the table.
The captain set the butt in his mouth, picked up the photo, and leaned closer to the candle to study it. He then did what no one else had done; using two fingers, he tucked the picture into his pocket.
“That is a very interesting story.” He removed a small notebook and a pencil from the same pocket. “How old is your sister?”
The girl in the photo looked to be about eighteen or nineteen, but I would be carrying around an older picture if she hadn’t been home in a few years. “She’ll be twenty-one in April.”
“The exact date?”
“April tenth.” My fictitious sister took on my mother’s birthdate.
The soldier scribbled down the information, then studied me.
Down went another puff of smoke and out I blew it, up toward the ceiling.
“But, fräulein, you can hardly be more than twenty-one yourself.”
“Twenty-four,” I said truthfully, tapping ashes onto the floor.
“Not yet married?” His smile dimpled and gave him a boyish look even though I’d estimated his age to be early thirties.
“Nein.” I allowed my features to soften.
He blinked. “Surely, a girl such as you must have a sweetheart.”
“Nein. The war...” I dipped my head, gesturing with my hand.
“Yes, the war has taken many good men.” He cleared his throat. “Where did your sister go to school?”
And the interrogation began in earnest. Back and forth we went, the captain smiling his kindly smile and writing down my responses in his notes as the lies piled up around me. I wasn’t fooled by his approachable demeanor for an instant. Behind the smile lay calculating eyes, of indeterminate color, that missed nothing. The questions weren’t spoken harshly or done at gunpoint. To anyone listening, it would have sounded like an affable conversation between a lady and interested beau. However, the hair on my neck stood on end, well aware of the two sentries behind me and the fact that outside the door was a platoon of well-trained killers. We finished our cigarettes, then the questions began to repeat themselves, an interrogation tactic I’d been trained to expect. The same questions, phrased differently, were tossed at me to see if the story would change. It took all my concentration to keep the lies straight, and I think I did a fair job of it, but I was uncertain if the captain bought the falsehoods I sold.
Raised voices drew Müller’s attention. One of them sounded like Masselin, and I couldn’t catch all of the conversation, but I’m fairly certain I heard my name. My interrogator excused himself, taking his notebook and one of the sentries with him. He directed the other to watch me. Moments after he left, the loud voices quieted.
It was time to make a move. I shifted my chair to view the soldier behind me and smiled. Before I could entice him closer, the door reopened and in walked Lars.
His reappearance did nothing to ease my state of mind; quite the opposite, as a matter of fact. He sauntered over to the table, put a boot against the side, and gave it a hard shove. The candle flickered wildly, fell off its precarious perch, and extinguished as the table shot past me, slamming against the wall. The move caught me off guard, and I couldn’t help the instinctive fearful cringe. The other soldier let out an exclamation of surprise.
“Remain where you are, Private.” Lars gripped the chair and dragged the back legs along the wood floors before stopping directly in front of me, close enough to see in the dim light. He sat so close our knees touched, and I automatically shifted mine to the side and crossed my legs.
“You’ve got everyone fooled. Don’t you? The girl with the pretty face has Masselin, Gilles, and even our captain under your spell. But I know better.” He tapped his nose. “Girls like you are nothing but a tease. Using men’s cocks to get what you want and then moving on once you get it.”
Uh oh, some girl broke his heart, and I’m about to pay the price. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Corporal. I think you are looking for something that isn’t there. I simply tell the truth.”
“The truth? What is the truth?”
“I told you, my sister—”
“You are a spy.”
“Nein.”
“You are the Black Widow everyone is searching for.”
“Where is my black hair?” I ran a hand through my light brown locks.
“You colored it.”
My brows rose. “The limp?”
He stared down at my feet, then gave a shake of his head. “Why do you speak so many different languages?”
“Many Germans do, even you.”
He leaned forward and unbuttoned the top buttons of my coat. Finding the chain attached to the little brass compass, he used a single finger to pull it out. It dangled there, gently swaying while he studied it. “An interesting choice for a necklace.”
I knew if I seized it out of his hands, he was wily enough to realize it meant something to me, and he’d take it. Instead, I folded my arms across my chest and glowered at him. To my relief, he dropped the chain.
“Good German girls do not lose their papers and travel halfway across the country to find their fictitious sisters.” He pushed aside my arms and undid the buttons down to my waist.
I realized immediately he planned to use sexual advances as an intimidation tactic. All I had to do was bide my time.
“Why don’t you tell me what you are really doing here.” He pushed one side of my coat off the shoulder and ran his hand along my collarbone. It was a lover’s move
, and I involuntarily shuddered with revulsion.
“What is wrong? Would you prefer Masselin?” He leaned in, his sour breath fanning my face and puckered scar conspicuously at eye level.
My countenance must have betrayed me, because that hand clawed into a fist, and the rip of my sweater filled the room. He pulled the knit down, past my breast, revealing the slip beneath. I slapped his hand away. His face twisted and he grabbed at the exposed breast, squeezing it cruelly.
I cried out and scrambled backwards, toppling the chair as I rose. My hand impulsively pulled out the gun and pointed it at my attacker. “Get back,” I uttered in a hoarse voice.
The door erupted into the room and Masselin burst through. He took in the scene and cursed roundly before holding up his palm and calling out, “Nein, warte!” No, wait!
Lights exploded, pain ripped through my head, and I fell to my knees. I’d forgotten about the soldier behind me.
♠♠♠♠
A sharp, throbbing heartbeat pumped at the back of my skull, and I couldn’t move my hands to reach behind and pull away whatever was causing the agony. Jumbled voices slowly took shape into language, and I struggled to open my eyes.
“We haven’t determined she’s the one they’re looking for. She doesn’t fit the description of the Black Widow.” The voice spoke in German.
“Maybe she’s a Jew.”
There was a disbelieving snort. “Look at her. She is no Jew. She looks like she could be your sister.”
Gunfire and mortar shelling exploded close enough to shake the building at its foundation.
“Then who the hell is she?”
“She may be exactly who she claims to be.”
“Who cares? We don’t have time for this. Give her over to the SS or Gestapo. Let them sort it out. The enemy comes closer. They’ve crossed the river.”
“There is no one this close to the front lines in the area to hand her over to. I’m not calling the Gestapo until I’m sure of her story. If she’s not the Black Widow and we claim she is...” The voice trailed off.
“Right.”
Excruciating pain overwhelmed my efforts to wake, and I spiraled back into the abyss.
When I came around the second time, the throbbing had dulled to a raw ache that was no longer focused solely on the back of my head. It had spread to the front of my temples. My chin lay slumped forward onto my chest, and in addition to the grating headache, my neck had become so stiff it took a Herculean effort to raise it. I groaned as the muscles agonizingly contracted and pried open my eyes. The room spun, and I shut them again, waiting for the dizziness and nausea to pass. When the lids reopened, I found myself tied to the arms of a chair from wrist to forearm. The bindings were tight enough to hold me—I flexed my fingers—but not cruel enough to cut off the circulation. My fingers weren’t white from the rope but rather the cold. The coat, my lifeline, was nowhere to be seen, my pendant was missing, and the rip in the sweater hung loose, revealing a good portion of my shoulder and clavicle as well as the straps of my slip and bra.
The room hadn’t changed much. The table remained against the wall where Lars had shoved it, the yellow candle had been replaced onto its holder, and the flame wavered low in its socket. They must have brought in a different chair to strap me to. The arms were thick and heavy; the back of the chair was tall, ending at the base of my neck. I wondered how long I’d been sitting in the hard seat, because my backside was stiff and had gone numb along with my lower legs. The wood creaked as I stretched out my knees and ankles, jiggling them to wake the deadened muscles.
The creak and my movements must have alerted the guard outside the room, because the door popped open, and the soldier who had struck the blow regarded me.
“You’re awake. Sehr gut.” He disappeared.
The candle guttered out, throwing the room into complete darkness. No sun peeped around the heavy curtains. It must be nighttime. Fear spread through my body like wildfire and turned my fuzzy brain back onto high alert. It was also at this time that the feeling began to work its way back into my numb limbs. The sensation speared me like a thousand needles stabbing my legs. I stomped my feet to relieve the discomfort until the door reopened.
My favorite captain carried an old-fashioned oil lantern. Its soft glow gave the room a cozy feel, and the brass was darkened with age; he placed it on the table, knocking aside the dead candle.
“Fräulein.” With slow deliberation, he picked up the overturned chair, turned the back toward me, and straddled it while making a tsking sound with his tongue. “You have not been honest with me.”
I smacked my tongue, running it against my parched lips in an effort to work up some saliva. My answer came out as unintelligible garble and turned into a gasping cough that racked my poor, battered body.
The captain realized my distress, and to my surprise, he pulled out his flask and poured some of the metallic-flavored water down my throat. I gulped at it greedily, but he only allowed enough to whet my whistle, rather than slake the thirst, before pulling away.
I crossed my legs and gave him a wide-eyed glance, “What do you mean, Captain? I have been truthful with you from the start.”
“Then how do you explain this?” He removed the airman’s weapon from his coat pocket and, resting his left elbow on the back of the chair, pointed the revolver at my forehead. “Smith and Wesson .38, Victory model. American-made, carried by British and American soldiers ... and their spies.”
Müller was incorrect. Most agents carried small fighting knives. On one occasion, I’d been given a stinger, a one-shot .22 caliber weapon, disguised as a cigarette, and Colette had once proudly demonstrated a lipstick stinger made by the SOE. If a spy carried a sidearm, it would be an automatic .32 caliber Colt pistol. I’d trained with one; it was widely used by the OSS because it hid easily in a pocket and was unlikely to get snagged on clothes upon removal, unlike the barrel gun with hammer that was currently pointed at me. However, I considered it ill-advised to point out his erroneous suppositions.
On the other hand, here it was—the chance I promised myself back in the cellar in France to force my captors into shooting me and get it over with. I could spit into his face. Explain exactly why OSS spies didn’t carry the type of weapon he held in his hand. Something as simple as speaking English. Provoke an attack. Bring this farce to an end before the real torture began.
Nonetheless, even with my tender, dizzy head, sore neck, and stiff limbs strapped to a chair, something kept me from provoking that attack. I stared down the barrel of a weapon, made by my own government, yet some innate stroke of human nature deep inside kept a flicker of hope alive that I would be able to talk my way out of the situation or that Masselin would eventually come to my aid. The possibility that I could sleep my way out of the predicament actually sounded preferable to death. I’d always thought, when the time came, I would be brave and fearless. Look death in the eye and meet it head on. I almost laughed at my foolishness. I was too alive, not yet ready to give up. The motivation to survive clung as strongly as a barnacle to the hull of a boat.
I didn’t spit into his face; instead I raised my chin proudly. “I found it on a dead American pilot and took it. They are not hard to find these days. I’m sure you know the bombing raids are constant, and our brave Luftwaffe fights to maintain control of the skies and fight off the cowardly American murderers.” My voice might not have been steady, but I stared past the cold steel directly into my captor’s eyes without flinching or blinking. I forced my leg to stop bouncing despite the painful bee-like prickles swarming their way up my legs.
“You know you are required to have a permit for this weapon.”
“It is a recent acquisition, and I haven’t had the time to complete the paperwork,” I answered softly.
“Why would a girl like you need a weapon like this?”
“For the exact reason your corporal forced me to pull it out. The mission to find my sister has been fraught with danger, and as a young woman alone .
.. I felt it behooved me to have one in case the enemy pigs tried to take advantage. I had hoped a military officer such as yourself could help me find her. Instead, I am tied to this chair like an animal.”
“And the money?”
My crossed leg gave an involuntary jerk.
“Such a clever little pocket. We tore the coat apart looking for other hiding places...” He shrugged but the gun didn’t waver.
I lifted my chin. “It seemed a safe way to store my money in case my handbag was lost or stolen ... which it was.”
A sickly smile drew across his face. “You have an answer for everything, fräulein. And so many Reichsmark. Tell me, how did a young woman such as yourself acquire so much money?”
I knew I’d given almost half of my stash to Oskar. There was still a fair amount of money left, but nothing outrageous. “Mutti and I have been saving, and when there is so little food and dry goods to purchase ... the money adds up over time.” I continued to meet his gaze.
“Yet it is my understanding, with rationing, all the prices have gone up.”
I didn’t bat an eye. “Ja, in the cities, but I told you we live in a smaller village. The inflation has not been as marked.” After all, I’d been able to afford food in Dornstetten a few days ago, and towns with military installations, such as Oberndorf, seemed to have better control over the price increases.
“I wonder, do you know how to handle a weapon such as this?” He drew his finger along the muzzle and tapped the cylinder.
I shrugged. “I imagine you squeeze the trigger, just like any other gun.”
“You would be correct.” He cocked the gun. His hand didn’t waver and my heart plummeted.
So ... this was how it would end, without any provocation at all. I drew in a breath, closed my eyes, and exhaled. The room went silent. My muscles relaxed, and the anxiety I’d been carrying exited my body like an eagle rising in flight. I felt it lift from my shoulders. Soon, I would meet my maker and see my mother. I’d once read a soldier described his near-death experience like a picture show passing before his eyes at high-speed. I waited for the movie to begin, but only one face came to mind. A soldier. Charlie stared down, holding me close as we rotated around the dance floor. “Our dance isn’t over yet,” he said. His voice rang in my ears so clearly it was as though he’d spoken aloud in this room.