by Ellen Butler
“You shouldn’t be disrespectful to the lady,” Private Whiskey scolded Müller.
“Next time leave the heavy hitting to us, ma’am.” Tank chewed his cigar and grinned.
It was too painful to smile and I had to bite my lip to keep from grinning back. “Thanks.”
“Clean him up so she can ask her questions.” Glassman tossed the dirty sock at Tank. “Be quick about it. We need to report back ... and she needs medical attention.”
I got comfortable at the card table and enjoyed listening to Müller moan beneath Tank’s callous ministrations.
“What did you tell command? Did you tell them you had the Black Widow?” I spoke to him in German.
His eyes flashed at me. “So, you admit, you are the Black Widow?”
I squinted, debating my answers. Maybe if I’m honest with him, he’ll tell me what I need to know. “No, I am not. I don’t know who she is. If they think it’s me, they’ll stop looking for her. Did you tell them I was the Black Widow?”
While I spoke to Müller, I heard Whiskey whisper to Tank, “How do we know she’s really one of ours? She speaks awful good Kraut.”
“Did you see the burns?” Tank grunted.
Müller just glared at me, his mouth set in a mulish scowl.
I don’t have time for this. I fisted my hands in frustration. “Let me explain something. If you cooperate and answer my questions, I’ll make sure you will come to no more harm. Captured as a prisoner of war, you will receive the appropriate treatment under the Geneva Convention.” I let that sink in. “If not, I will tell these men you are a high-ranking member of the Nazi Party and that you ordered the murder of hundreds of French citizens at Oradour-sur-Glane.”
His eyes flickered at the mention of the French town.
“I see you’ve heard of the atrocities committed there. I will recommend they turn you over to the French government. Immediately,” I said through gritted teeth.
“You cannot prove I was there. Those were SS, not Heer troops.”
“Do you think you’ll survive long enough in a French prison waiting for the facts to be sorted?”
“As a prisoner of war, the only thing I am required to provide to the enemy is name, rank, and number.”
“Hauptmann, you are speaking in front of three paratroopers who jumped into Normandy and survived the past month surrounded by the enemy in the forests of Bastogne.” I had a feeling that Tank and Glassman fit into the category I just placed them. Private Whiskey, on the other hand, looked like more like a fresh-faced replacement, but the captain didn’t know that. “They are immune to the hellishness of war. Do you think any of them would hesitate to beat you into submission or shoot you in the head, without compunction, if I asked?”
He didn’t respond.
“They didn’t like Lars’ handiwork. The big one was pretty angry.”
I tilted my head toward Tank.
Müller eyed the beefy soldier from head to toe, then turned back to me. “A compromise then. I will answer your questions if you answer some of mine.”
I scowled at him. “Fine.”
“Are you a spy?”
“Ja.”
“British?”
“American.”
A flash of disbelief crossed his features.
“Now answer some of mine. What did you relay to your superiors? Who did you tell them you were holding? Did you tell them you had the Black Widow?”
“Lars told the Gestapo he had the Black Widow, but I did not confirm it. We had orders to transfer you tomorrow. What about your sister?”
“A lie. Did you give them a description of me?”
“Not exactly. Lars wasn’t willing to tell them. You don’t fit the Black Widow’s profile. He lied.”
The tension in my shoulders ebbed and I relaxed against the wooden shield behind me. The Black Widow, whoever she was, would be safe for a while longer.
“Who are you?”
I pinched my bottom lip, debating my answer. “Just an insignificant girl who took care of some German children.”
His eyes flared and recognition flittered across his features. “Das Kindermädchen? You? The Nanny? But ... I ... I don’t understand, they said she fled south, to Switzerland.”
So, they were looking for me. “Did you tell them Masselin found me at his grandmother’s home?”
He looked down.
I uncrossed my legs and leaned toward him. “What did you tell them?”
He didn’t answer.
“Sags mir!” Tell me! My fist slammed against the table, making the cards and Private Whiskey jump. The two seasoned soldiers remained casual in their stances.
The German shook his head. I ground my teeth in frustration. Glassman shifted impatiently.
“Need some help?” Tank raised his brows.
I zeroed in on the stump hanging from his mouth. “Tell me, Sergeant, do you happen to have any more of those lovely cigars?”
He hesitated a moment before reaching into a pocket and withdrawing a fat stogie. “Would you like me to light it for you?”
“Please.”
He went through the process of cutting off the end, then fired it up before holding it toward me.
“Thank you.” I took the smelly cigar between my thumb and forefinger. “The captain looks warm. Would you mind dispensing with his sleeves?”
“I’ll do it,” Whiskey volunteered, retrieving the knife strapped to his calf.
Müller glared at me beneath his furrowed brow as Whiskey worked. I clamped the cheroot between my teeth, making sure not to take a drag. At the tender age of sixteen, some of my boarding school friends and I had gotten ahold of a box of Cuban cigars. We’d snuck into the basement, in the middle of the night, and lit up. It didn’t take long before we were all choking and gagging on the foul things. I wasn’t willing to make the ignoble mistake of vomiting in front of the treacherous captain again.
“All set, ma’am.” Whiskey returned the blade to its scabbard.
I rose. “Herr Müller, do you know what it feels like to get burned by a cigarette? First, the signals race to your brain, and you automatically flinch away from the pain, but when you’re tied down, there’s nowhere to go. Then you can hear the sizzling, and then the smell. Now, tell me about Masselin’s grandmother.”
He glared at me mutinously. “How can you justify this? I bandaged your wounds. I was not the one who gave you the burns.”
“Nein, you are the commanding officer. You ... allowed ... it to happen,” I hissed. “Just as these gentlemen will allow it to happen.”
His alarmed gaze whipped from one soldier to the other, landing on Glassman. “Stop her,” he shouted in English.
Glassman shrugged.
The cigar sizzled against his bicep, and the scent of burning flesh overrode that of the tobacco. He gritted his teeth for as long as he could stand, then let out a bloodcurdling roar.
I removed the stub. “Tell me about Masselin’s grandmother.”
His head hung forward and he mumbled something.
“Lauter.” Speak up.
He shook his head and I pressed the cigar against his skin again.
“They went to the shelter she was holed up in ... she ... it...” The top of his head shifted side to side.
“Schweinehund.” I whispered the epithet and collapsed in the chair.
“We need to wrap this up,” Glassman said.
“I’m finished.” I handed the cigar back to Tank.
“What should we do with him?” the private asked.
“Whatever you want. He’s of no more use to me.” I rose and exited the room. I barely flinched when the shot followed my departure.
Tank found me staring down the gloomy staircase. “Need a hand, doll?” Before I could answer, he slung his rifle over his shoulder and scooped me off my feet. My arms automatically wrapped around his neck. Upon our descent to the main floor, he navigated around a dead German soldier. His foot jarred the inert form, and the head flopped b
ack to reveal Masselin’s blank visage. Unexpected pity filled me; at least he wouldn’t have to be told about his grandmother. I pulled the thick collar up around my ears and tucked my head into Tank’s neck.
Chapter Seventeen
Secrets
Clusters of American soldiers milled around the village square as houses smoldered in the background. The distinct acrid tang of smoking wood, rifle munitions, building dust, and coppery blood hung heavily in the air. German soldiers had been assembled, weaponless—guarded by a dozen Americans—in the center of the plaza. They sat quietly on the cobblestones as others were herded, from side streets at gunpoint, hands in the air, toward the gathering. A collection of wounded soldiers congregated at tables of a partially bombed-out café and were being treated by a pair of medics.
Tank’s appearance, carrying me, stopped nearby conversations. Questions were tossed at him.
“Hey, Sarge, who you got there, another Kraut prisoner?”
“Tank? Who is that?”
“Tank, who’s the Jerry?”
Tank ignored the questions and carried me over to the impromptu first-aid post. An army jeep pulled up, and, stepping in front of other waiting soldiers, he slipped me into the front seat. Two able-bodied soldiers heaved a groaning man, with blood-soaked bandages wrapped around his thigh, onto the stretcher strapped to the hood of the vehicle.
“C’mon, Sarge. You’re sending a Kraut over me?” protested a private with a dressing wrapped around his forehead.
“Take her back to the aid station with you. She needs medical attention.” Tank spoke to the driver, then turned to the protesting soldier. “And she’s not a Kraut. You two take the back.” He hooked a thumb over his shoulder.
One of the medics pushed through the crowd. “What’s the problem? Sergeant, these men have been triaged. I haven’t seen this man”—he did a double-take—“woman. Who is she? What’s wrong with her?”
“She’s one of ours and she’s been through hell at the hands of the Krauts, Doc.”
“It’s not a problem. If you point me in the direction of company HQ, I’ll walk.” I swung a leg out intending to alight. “I need to speak...” Whoa. The ground shimmied and shifted.
Tank shoved me back in place. “You can barely walk, much less see through that left eye. And when was the last time you ate?”
I pressed two fingers against my temple. “It’s been awhile.”
The medic began to fire questions at me, surrounding voices rose; it was too much. I couldn’t keep up with all the arguments and squeezed my eyes shut.
First Sergeant Glassman’s dulcet tone intervened, “What’s the problem, gentlemen?”
The voices turned off like a spigot.
“Doc, let her go ... please.”
“Whatever you say, First Sergeant.” The medic returned to his duties, and the two injured men piled in back without further discussion.
Glassman handed me the leather satchel but addressed his comments to the driver. “Get this bag to Captain Devlin. He’s going to want to see what’s inside.”
“Who is Captain Devlin?” I asked as the car jerked into gear and zipped off down the road so quickly I had to grab the handle attached to the dashboard to keep from falling out.
“Intelligence officer,” the driver replied.
“Do you know a Captain McNair?”
“You mean Major McNair? He’s at battalion HQ.”
I didn’t ask any more questions for the rest of the ride because I spent it gritting my teeth against each bump and knock, which sought to exacerbate every bruise on my body. Even so, I couldn’t dismiss the wings of joy that beat in my breast, fluttering happily with the knowledge that Charlie was alive and close by. I reached inside the coat pocket to assure myself his compass remained firmly nestled there. Finally, we jerked to a stop in front of a squat one-story school building. The GIs in the back seat got out, and a pair of orderlies retrieved the poor fellow on the hood. I remained in my seat.
“This is the aid station, ma’am. Do you need help getting out?”
“Where are you headed next?”
“Got to drop off these papers at HQ, then I’ll go back to pick up more of the wounded.”
“Take me to with you to HQ.”
“Ma’am, my orders were to drop you off at the aid station.”
“I have important information for your intelligence officer, Captain Devlin.”
“Whatever you have, ma’am, you can give it to me. I’ll make sure he gets it.”
“It ... is in here.” I tapped my forehead. “Let’s go.”
“Ma’am, my orders were to leave you at the aid station.”
“I don’t give a damn about your orders. I have intelligence that is important to the success of the Allied advance and the security of the United States.”
The fellow had the cheek to roll his eyes at me, and my patience snapped.
“Listen up, soldier,” I snatched a hunk of his coat placket and jerked him forward until we were nose to nose. “I didn’t spend the past week dodging Nazis, sleeping in the cold, and getting slapped around by a misogynistic monster just to have the intelligence I’ve been guarding become useless because it didn’t get to the right people in time.” His eyes had grown wide as I spoke through clenched teeth. I released him and he fell back against his seat. “Take me to your intelligence officer. Now.”
He shrugged. “Suit yourself, lady.” We zipped through the town, dodging groups of meandering GIs and trucks. “Who did you say you were?”
“I didn’t.” I could have sworn the drive was even more harrowing than the one that brought us to the aid station, and I wondered who had the audacity to give this fellow a license in the first place. “I’m with the Office of Strategic Services.”
He flashed a blank look but I didn’t deign to explain. “Someone worked you over good, eh?”
“Watch the road!”
The horn blared, sending chickens scattering in all directions—we missed one by millimeters—then he swerved back into his lane to dodge out of the way of an oncoming truck. Finally, the hair-raising ride ended as we drew to a stop in front of a hotel building that showed relatively little scarring on its façade and only a few broken windows. The driver yanked on the hand brake and hopped out, snatching the satchel from my grip.
“Wait here. I’ll see if the captain is in.”
Before I had a chance to protest, he strode through the front doors.
My own dismount out of the Jeep was not so quick or agile, and I followed him at a hobbling pace. The lobby bustled with life. A coterie of soldiers sat in a group of leather club chairs to my left, loudly debating the merits of the Yankees versus the Red Sox over a game of cards. On the right, three soldiers at the check-in desk sorted boxes full of cigarettes and K-rations into piles. Another soldier wandered around calling names and passing out mail. Other soldiers came and went through the front door, blindly moving past me as if I didn’t exist. My driver was nowhere to be seen.
The mailman passed in front of me and I laid a hand on his forearm. “Excuse me, can you tell me where I can find Captain Devlin?”
“Room two-oh-six, I think.” He didn’t glance up from the envelopes sifting through his fingers.
At the far end of the foyer rose the grand staircase, the golden carpets worn and dirty from muddy boots and lack of cleaning but its elegant design and woodwork apparent despite the careworn appearance. A pair of soldiers stood to the right of the stairs, in front of a birdcage elevator, deep in conversation. The beautiful but daunting staircase mocked me. “Does the elevator work?”
“Not if you want it to go up. Timmons,” he called out and headed over to the card players.
Two-oh-six—the brass numbers were much like the staircase, worn and discolored but still claiming the former elegance of the aging hotel. I raised my hand to knock; the door swung inward before my knuckles touched the oak wood.
“What are you doing here? I told you to wait in the Jeep,” my
driver said.
“Corporal, who’s that?” a disembodied voice from inside the room asked.
I pushed past the rude corporal and walked into the suite. A sofa and high-backed chair sat in front of a crackling fire. To the right, littered with papers, was a cherry dining table big enough to seat eight. The other half of the room was taken up with a large bed. A hatless, brown-haired captain stood at the foot of the table with his hands on hips. To his left sat a bright-eyed private, who looked not more than a day over eighteen, tapping diligently on his typewriter.
“Captain Devlin?”
His brow furrowed and he squinted at me. “Yes. Have we met?”
“No, sir. My name is Lillian Saint James. I am an operative with the Office of Strategic Services. I have information that your commanding officers are going to want to see.”
The driver dogged my steps. “I’m sorry, sir. Would you like me to—”
But the captain waved him off. “It’s fine, Corporal.” He shook my hand. “You must be the impertinent lady Jones, here, said wouldn’t stay at the aid station. Are you all right? You look as though you have been through the wringer.”
“I’m fine.”
“If you are speaking of the papers Jones dropped off, we’re looking into them.” He indicated the empty bag on the chair, its contents already strewn across the table.
“I am speaking about the film secreted in my boot heel, which provides exact locations of munitions factories, a couple of recently built Luftwaffe airstrips, and two static U-boat locations, including one patrolling the New England coast.”
The typing stopped.
Delivering this information directly to the military, without going through the proper chain of command, was a breach of protocol and would likely land me in a bathtub full of hot water, to put it mildly. However, my body would soon give out, and I hadn’t the time or energy to seek out my people, who probably assumed by now that I was dead and had written me off. Additionally, I felt that turning the materials over to the frontline troops might improve the likelihood that the intelligence could be used sooner rather than later. Beyond all of these justifications, in the back audience of my brain, there rang a small voice that had been growing to a roar ever since I saw the Screaming Eagle on Sergeant Glassman’s shoulder.