by Ellen Butler
“I’m going to tie your feet to the legs, then release your hands.”
“Is that really necessary, captain? I did not attack you before when you released me.”
“It is necessary. If you try something, the private has orders to shoot you dead. Do you understand?”
Once my ankles were tied to the legs, he untied my hands. I scooped up the glass and drank ravenously. The cold water sluiced down my raw throat, providing much-needed relief against the strain from shouting at Lars. He pulled a packet of field ration crackers out of his front pocket and laid them within reach. They were dry and stale, and I dipped them in the water before swallowing them. It was relief to put something on my empty stomach. I considered throwing the glass at his head but realized it would be foolish. The private, who hadn’t thought twice about bashing me with the butt of his gun, would surely follow orders to put an unremorseful end to me.
Müller patiently smoked while he waited for me to finish, then he retied the bindings and departed. He left the lantern behind but didn’t see fit to remove the ropes around my ankles.
Even with a little bit of food in my stomach, my energy had been sapped. I rested my aching head on the table. My eyes drifted shut, and I wondered what horror was in store next. I skimmed the edge of sleep; strange dreams of running through thick mud swirled around me.
Chapter Sixteen
Hope
“Ilse.”
A hand gripped my shoulder.
“Ilse, wake up.”
My eyes, gritty with sleep and raw from fatigue, cracked open. Masselin stood at my elbow and stared down his long, straight nose at me.
“Connard.” I grumbled the epithet as I peeled my cheek off the table. Pale fingers of the sun reached around the curtains, adding to the lantern’s glow. I have heard it said that things always looked brighter in the light of day. The sight of Masselin gave me cause to doubt the cliché.
“Je regrette, ma chérie.” I regret this, sweetheart. His thumb softly stroked across my jawline beneath the bruises, but his touch still had me flinching. “This is not what I had planned.”
He’d spoken in a whisper and I answered him back in the same low tones, but my quiet response was filled with bitterness and resentment. “Non? I wonder what your precious Grand-mére would have to say about my treatment.”
Masselin frowned at my words. “She would be very angry with me.”
“I should have shot you when I had the chance.”
“Why didn’t you?”
I stared stonily. Why didn’t I?
“You are a tough girl, but it is not so easy to shoot someone point-blank. Is it?”
He wasn’t wrong. It was far easier to shoot someone in the heat of battle and from a distance than to look someone in the eye and pull the trigger. Everything about Masselin had me questioning his motives. Would he help me now, or would he choose to play it safe to save his own skin?
A footfall could be heard in the hallway and Masselin’s head snapped to the door. He placed his fingers at my lips in a quieting motion. The tread continued past our room. When the sergeant’s attention returned to me, he spoke in low, urgent tones, “I haven’t much time.”
“Then untie me.” I pulled at the twine.
“Not yet. Lars is still here. The enemy is surrounding this position as we speak. Soon Lars will be sent out to fight. When he is gone, I can release you. I have found a place for you to hide until it is safe.”
“No, don’t wait, let me go now.” I tugged harder at the ropes. “If Lars gets another shot at me, he’ll surely kill me.”
Masselin’s bangs flopped in his eyes as he shook his head. “Non, he needs you alive. He is an informant for the Gestapo. He is hoping to leverage you to get off the front lines and become one of them. But he is still not sure that you are the spy they are looking for, and if you don’t turn out to be who he claims ... it would not go well for him.”
None of Masselin’s explanation surprised me. There had been a frantic disorder to Lars’ interrogation tactics—his desperate insistence that I was the Black Widow still resonated in my memory.
“I have to go. I sent your guard on an errand but he will soon return. Do not lose hope, ma chérie. I promise I will be back.”
“Masselin, wait, I can—” The door closed behind him before I could finish the thought.
Minutes later the faithful watchdog returned. Checking on the prisoner, he glanced around the room as if to assure himself no one hid in the corners. He looked me up and down, then smoothly shut the door without a word.
At least I knew Masselin was on my side and planned to release me from this nightmare, but for the moment, my situation hadn’t changed. Even though I was wrapped in the blanket, the frigid winter saw fit to seep its way into my bones and my unshod toes were numb with cold. The throbbing pain from the injuries on my head had eased off, but fatigue slowed my thinking, and the bruise on my cheek had swelled enough to partially obstruct my vision.
I spent the next hour listening to gunfire and tank shelling, optimistically waiting for my champion to return and set me loose. The door swung inward and all my hopes were dashed.
♠♠♠♠
I don’t know how long Lars toyed with me as the sound of the fighting drew nearer. Probably no more than twenty minutes, but it seemed a lifetime.
The sweater lay in tatters around my waist, and the slip, hanging by a single strap, looked as though it’d been through a sausage slicer. Three new cigarette burns blazed a trail down my arm, although, to my surprise, he had yet to cut me with the knife—the removal of my clothes had been completed with surgical precision as he held me still by the throat. The sharp blade lay on the table, against the wall, at his elbow. His first move upon entering the room, like before, was to dramatically shove the table away, leaving me vulnerable and helpless under his siege in the middle of the room.
For the life of me, I couldn’t figure out why he was here, torturing me, instead of fighting with his colleagues. Did he defy his orders? What drove his obsession? From the sound of the fighting, soon we would both be shot or blown up.
As if my thoughts had brought the gods down upon us, an explosion suddenly rocked the house. The blast left me disoriented and my ears ringing. A chunk of plaster fell onto Lars, but his reflexes had him moving fast. Footfalls and raised voices could be heard coming from the first floor. He dashed away the bits of ceiling and was upon me in a flash. Jamming the sock the captain had used on my bruises, which was still soggy from the snow, into my mouth, he knotted it tightly around the back of my head, and then he pulled the door open and slipped behind it, effectively making me a target for whatever came up the stairs.
I stared with wide eyes—waiting.
The black nose of the M1 came into view first. The soldier carrying it walked on cat feet, making no sound. Lars didn’t show any indication that he’d heard the enemy’s approach. I looked from the soldier’s confused face to Lars, who stood holding a finger to his lips with his left hand and a Luger trained on me with his right. Back and forth my eyes frantically darted. I quaked with dread, waiting to see whose bullets would tear through me first.
The American must have sensed what my mind screamed at him. In a flash three bullets ripped through the door—bang, bang, bang—and Lars slumped, face first, to the floor.
“You okay, Sarge?” a voice from the hall whispered.
The army sergeant made some motions with his hands, then stepped over the threshold. His soot-blackened face scanned the room before approaching me. The uniform hung loosely off his average frame, and the stripes on his shoulder identified him as a first sergeant. The Screaming Eagle patch at his shoulder sent a thrill of recognition through me. He smelled of gun powder and sweat, and he fumbled, one-handed, with the knot until the gag dropped away.
“It’s bloody good to see you.” My voice sounded gruff and gravelly.
His face registered surprise. “British?”
“American, actually. The c
olloquialism is a leftover from too many years at a British boarding school.”
Another sergeant entered the room.
“What took you so long?” I asked.
“I didn’t realize we were late.” The new soldier, a big, burly fellow with dark hair, chomped on an unlit cigar. “Who are you?”
I rubbed my wrists as the first sergeant moved to cut the ankle ropes free. “Call me Lily.”
“What the hell are you doing here?”
My cold fingers felt good against the bruising at my neck. “I’m an agent for the Office of Strategic Services. I’ve been trying to make it to the front lines but was captured a day or two ago. I’m not really sure.”
The cigar shifted from one side to the other, but other than that, the soldier gave no outward show of surprise at my revelation. “This is First Sergeant Glassman. I’m Thompson, but everyone calls me Tank.”
I could understand why. His presence seemed to take up half the room.
“Hey, Sarge.” A diminutive private stepped into the room, laid eyes on me, and stopped short. His gaze zeroed in on my chest.
The other two had seemed immune to my state of undress, but the new soldier’s scrutiny brought my condition to the forefront. I crossed my arms and flushed with embarrassment.
Tank’s brow furrowed as he scrutinized the burns along my pale skin before snatching up the blanket that Lars had left crumpled on the floor and draped it over my shoulders.
“What is it, Whiskey?” Glassman asked, stepping in front of me.
The private snapped out his trance. “I cleared the other two rooms. Nothing,” he said with a thick Boston accent.
“Ma’am,” Sergeant Glassman addressed me, “do you know what’s upstairs?”
“I think the radio room is directly above us.”
“Is there anyone up there?” Tank asked.
Not a creak of the floorboards or crackle from the radio could be heard. “I remember footsteps earlier. I kind of lost track during...” I shrugged and looked away, shame burning on my cheeks. I cleared my throat. “I’ve been led to believe there were seven men billeted to this building, but I imagine most were sent out to defend the town. I would guess one, maybe two men upstairs.”
“I’ll go, Sarge.” The private headed out of the room.
“That’s Wisnewski. We call him Whiskey,” Tank said.
“Go with him.” Glassman turned to me and grasped my elbow. “Let’s get you out of here.”
“Wait.” With the sergeant’s help, I rose to my feet, took a step, and fell to my knees, my fingers barely brushing Tank’s pant leg on the way down.
Tank paused.
“Wait, don’t kill him.” I peered up at the burly soldier on all fours. “I need him alive. I need to know what he knows. I need to know what he told them.”
He turned and bolted out the door.
Glassman cradled his weapon against his right side, hooked my right arm around his shoulders, and, encircling my waist with his left arm, managed to heave me up onto stiff, tottering legs. There was a shout from above, scuffling, a shot, and a thud.
Glassman dropped his arm from my middle. “Tank! Whiskey!”
I would have fallen again had I not curled my fist around his heavy canvas coat. Instead, I listed against him like a boat taking on water.
“We’re fine, Sarge.” Tank’s muffled voice floated down from above.
“Damn, I really wanted him alive,” I muttered.
“You’re ice cold. Let’s see if we can find you some clothes.” His hand returned to my waist and he guided me back to the hard seat.
“The German’s coat, on the back of his chair.” I stretched my fingers, crossed my legs, and bent to massage my numb toes. The pressure sent angry sparks of pain through my foot, which I welcomed with relief. I’d once seen the results of frostbite on a resistance fighter who’d spent too many freezing nights in the elements. His blackened toes were not something I’d soon forget. The fear of removing the socks and finding something similar abated as sensation returned. A tearing sound pulled my attention to the sergeant, and I found him stripping the epaulets and insignia from the heavy overcoat.
“Don’t want you to be mistaken for the enemy,” he said with one last rip and dangled it in front of me.
“Thanks.” Using the arms of the chair, I pushed to my feet and slipped the wool over my shivering frame. My fingers were so stiff from cold and disuse I couldn’t thrust the thick buttons through their holes. Without a word, Glassman pushed away my hopeless hands and buttoned them for me. The enormous coat swallowed me, falling below my calf, but I didn’t care, I was too desperate for the heat it would provide to my frigid, quaking body.
“Do you want his boots? They’ll be too big on you... We could stuff them.”
I shook my head. “Mine are in the corner, but I could use his laces.”
He pulled the dead man into the middle of the room, flipped him over, and went to work removing the laces. I tottered over to my boots on legs as wobbly as a newborn colt. While we took care of the shoe situation, I noticed the surrounding sounds of fighting had dissipated and only single rifle shots were scattered here and there.
Minutes later, Glassman assisted me to my feet again. “Let’s get you out of here.”
Lars’ body lay blocking the threshold; Glassman stepped over him and turned to help me, but I ignored his outstretched hand, instead glowering down at my tormentor. His glazed, sightless eyes stared up at me, the 9 mm Luger still gripped in his hand. The darkened reminders of our little chat that would leave indelible scars burned painfully with every shift of the woolen coat. His actions instilled terror that would haunt my dreams for years to come. Anger and fury filled my tightening chest, my breath sped up, and I lashed out with a kick to his ribs. To my utter frustration, he was so heavy, and I so weak, his motionless form barely moved. Something snapped, and with an outraged screech, I bent down, wrenched the weapon out of his inert grasp, and put two bullets into his blood-soaked chest. I can’t say that it relieved the swirling tempest in my body, but it did seem to alleviate the feelings of helplessness.
I gazed up to find Glassman’s startled countenance gaping, his weapon at the ready and aimed ... at me.
“Sorry about that, Sergeant.” I allowed the gun to rotate forward on my pointer finger and held the butt out to the stunned soldier. My hand no longer shook.
“Glass!” Tank’s voice called out as he thundered down the stairwell.
“We’re fine,” Glassman returned.
The footsteps paused.
“We’ll be up in a minute,” he said over his shoulder.
Tank’s tread retreated up the stairs and the soldier’s gaze raked my face. “Is he the one ... who did that to you?”
“Yes.”
His jaw clenched as he studied me and the weapon I dangled from my finger. “You know how to handle that weapon?”
“Yes.”
“Then you had best hang on to it. You might need it.”
I tucked the Luger into my pocket, stepped over Lars, and followed Glassman upstairs. In the hallway, we came upon the German private who had been guarding my door, slumped against the wall, bleeding out from a bullet wound to his neck. The radio room turned out to be a cheery rose-papered bedroom bright with sunshine. A double bed with a dirty white eyelet cover was shoved up against the left wall, and a round drum table with a pair of matching shield-back chairs assembled in the center of the room—an interrupted card game scattered across the table. The game’s pot held a small pile of Reichsmark, and on top lay my compass pendant, the chain spiraled around it like a snake. The needle rotated and danced, searching for north, when I picked it up.
Against the left wall sat a mahogany rolltop desk with a German radio and an Enigma machine. Tank riffled through papers scattered across the desktop. Next to the radio, tied to another chair with the same twine they’d used on me, and what looked like a dirty sock jammed into his mouth, sat Captain Müller. Private Whiske
y stood relaxed, with his gun trained on the captain’s heart.
“We caught this one for you, ma’am.” Whiskey grinned at me, proud as a peacock with his tail feathers fanned.
“Glass, come look at this.” Tank waved at the first sergeant. “Kraut papers. Can you make anything out of it?”
Glassman shuffled through the documents.
“Spy girl, you speak Kraut?” Tank asked.
“Of course.” I tucked the compass into my coat pocket.
Müller’s gaze narrowed and he grunted, pulling at the restraints as I bypassed him.
“Hey now.” Private Whiskey pushed him back with the tip of his M1. “We’ll get to you in a minute.”
I shuffled through the missives. Two large maps were obviously troop movements, including military installations across the Rhine. One stack I identified as the daily Enigma transmissions by its weather report. There were also memorandums providing directions from Hitler to fight to the last man and instructing troops to blow up the bridges as they retreated and basically burn everything down to the ground—a trick he’d learned from the Russians. I shoved everything into a leather satchel I found sitting on the bed and handed it to Glassman.
“I imagine your commanding officer will want to see this and the Enigma machine. I need to speak with the prisoner.”
Tank pulled the sock out of Müller’s mouth. My gaze surveyed the room—the card game, the radio messages, the pair of chairs at the table, back to the captain. The bloody wretch had been here the entire time. He must have known exactly what Lars was doing to me one floor down and done nothing to stop him. I fingered the compass, then I reached back and let fly. My hand connected with his cheek; the contact reverberated up my arm and flung his face aside.
Ow! His stone jaw left my digits stinging. Breath whistled through my teeth as I flailed my hand in the air, shaking out the pain.
The captain’s face rotated back to me. He smirked, called me a rude German epithet, and spit at my shoe. Tank reached past me. His fist connected and, with a dull crunch, broke Müller’s nose. The smirk disappeared and our prisoner cried out as blood flooded down his face.