“Oh, it is my profound conviction that you had a God complex long before I came along.”
He leaned forward and caressed her cheek lightly with his fingers. “I must admit, I was relieved to hear that you’re alive. How did you manage to escape from that train? You said it yourself; you were barely breathing.”
“A friend of mine rescued me.”
“Must be a very good friend then.”
Giselle let the insinuation pass.
“I would love to stay here and reminisce with you, but alas, I have a train to catch. That gives me about ten minutes to decide what to do with you, my beautiful Laure.”
Giselle found it amusing that he still preferred using her alias to her real name, which he knew perfectly well.
“Do whatever you like, just don’t give me to him,” she replied, smiling in spite of herself. “If you take me to the backyard and shoot me yourself, it would be fine enough with me.”
“Come now, Laure. You wouldn’t make me drag my old bones all the way from Paris just to shoot you. I know you too well. You’re a very intelligent woman. You always think twenty steps ahead. You wanted to offer me some sort of a deal, most definitely. I was curious as to what you had up your sleeve.”
Giselle’s gaze fastened on him for a few silent moments as though she was working something in her mind before putting it into words. “You’re losing the war.”
A pause followed. Sievers nodded, his eyes staring oddly.
“Well? Go on; I’m listening.”
“You’re losing the war. You’re being beaten by the Russians in the Eastern Front and by the British and Free French in Africa. The Battle of Britain has all but failed. Your Luftwaffe has lost far too many planes and are now fighting mostly on the defense, not offense. Our Resistance is sabotaging your production almost daily now. We blow up factories and derail your trains. The young men, who you tried to bring to Germany as the Labor Front, have almost all taken to the hills and are now attacking your soldiers in small hit squads, armed with British guns that the SOE drop in ever-increasing amounts. The Americans are pressing from the Italian side, and even the Italians aren’t listening to your orders anymore.”
Sievers wasn’t smiling anymore but wore an abstract expression which made it impossible for her to guess his thoughts.
“You will lose this war, and soon.” Giselle went on in a convinced way. “And then instead of being the hunter, you will become the hunted. The Allies will come for you, and what do you think they will do to you? If the communists don’t get to you first, General de Gaulle and his administration will put you on trial for what you’ve done. They’re already talking about it, have no doubt.” Giselle paused for dramatic effect, hoping that she didn’t overdo the threatening part. But she hadn’t threatened him, really. Only warned him of things to come. Judging by his look, he knew of those things as well. “Barbie has the Sub-Prefect of Lyon, Delattre, in his prison. He isn’t accused of anything; merely of aiding the Resistance, namely taking a few men for a meeting, that’s all. Barbie has nothing else on him.”
“Would that Prefect be the same friend who took you off the train?”
“No. But he is a good and honest man, and it would be a waste if he died at Barbie’s hand. Save him, make Barbie release him and when the time comes, Delattre will speak in your defense on trial. And so will I, if you choose to keep my life as well. We have many friends, and they will all vouch for you before a judge; maybe even come up with some story and tell the jury that you were aiding us all along.” She threw a tentative glance at him. “If you really did, it would help your case immensely.”
His lips slowly moved into a grin. “Are you trying to ‘turn’ me, Laure?”
“Why not?”
Sievers’ eyes roamed lazily around the bare room, his light brow creasing as he pondered her words. “How do I know you aren’t just using me? How do I know that you will indeed help me when the time comes?”
“Take me to Paris with you.” She inched closer, her feet almost touching the tips of his black boots. “Have a couple of your agents follow me at all times; I will be your personal guarantee.”
He kept silent. Giselle pulled even closer and brushed his lips with hers, carefully watching for his reaction. He was looking at her with curiosity. To hell with it, Giselle thought, circling his neck with her arm and pressing her mouth to his. It won’t be the first Nazi I’ve kissed. If it saves a few lives, I’ll live with myself.
He did kiss her back, deeply and with unexpected, ravishing force, but then burst out laughing all of a sudden, stepping away and shaking his head. “Oh no. I think not. I would be a complete idiot if I started an affair with you. The last one of my kin who did, ended up dead. I think I prefer to have you as my business partner only, even though, I admit, the offer of having you as my mistress is extremely tempting.”
He held out his hand to her. Giselle readily shook it.
“Let’s go, my beautiful Laure. We have a train to catch.”
“What about the Sub-Prefect?”
“I will take care of your petit ami; don’t worry.”
“He’s not my petit ami.”
“You wouldn’t be pleading for his life if he weren’t.”
Giselle swallowed further protest. Let him assume whatever he wants, as long as Etienne lives.
Lyon. June 23, 1943
The first streetlamps, tinted with blue, illuminated the cobbled streets as dusk settled over the city, fiery and thick with heat. Philippe walked along the quayside, in tow with Marcel, brooding over something as he watched the river shimmer and gleam in the dying rays of the sun, slowly transforming into liquid onyx. Their shift on the railroad had just ended, and both were longing for some Beaujolais and hard cheese they still had left from the recent trip to the Marché Noir. They crossed a broad avenue, turned into a narrow passage, hardly lit and smelling of sewer waters. As they approached the building, where they rented a room, Philippe checked the mailbox as he did every evening; Patrice or Father Yves sometimes dropped instructions or messages in it – always coded. The color drained from his face when he saw the familiar handwriting on a small lined piece of paper.
“Sophie and I have been arrested. Go to the Bishop; I left my instructions with him in case of my arrest.
Delattre.”
Philippe stood, glued to the spot, his hand falling by his side helplessly. Marcel took the note out of his lifeless fingers and re-read it several times before searching Philippe’s face.
“Philippe…”
“This is it,” his comrade replied in a hollow voice, staring around in a dazed manner like a man who had just been mortally wounded. “They got them. They got the Chief and Giselle.”
“Shall we try and get them out?” Marcel spoke with an effort. It was a forlorn hope, and both were painfully aware of it.
Philippe shook his head. “Giselle worked in Montluc, remember? Before the Boches took it over. There’s no escaping from that prison, and especially now, with the SS in charge. They’ll shoot them before we get to them anyway.”
“So, we just sit here and do nothing?” Marcel exclaimed in indignation. “You saw it yourself, he said it clearly in the note; everyone could have been burned. We have a traitor in our midst. We need to do something!”
“What we need to do is to go to Father Yves, as the Chief instructed.”
“But what about Giselle? My sister is in that prison!”
“She’s dear to me too!” Philippe snapped, his black eyes shining with ire. “But if we go there now, we’ll all die! Is that what you want?!”
He regretted the harshness of his tone at once, noting the tears welling in the corners of Marcel’s hazel eyes. The boy had already lost his dear petit ami, his Tommy, to the Gestapo firing squad, as well as Giselle – or so he had thought once. Before, Philippe managed to save her from that train. Now…
Philippe forced himself to regain his composure even though his chest was burning inside from violent emotio
ns. Even if she dies, he would save her little brother at least. She wouldn’t forgive him if he allowed Marcel to do something stupid.
“Let’s go, Marcel. This address must be burned too. Grab your things and let’s be on our way. While we still can.”
17
Montluc prison. June 24, 1943
Etienne woke up, startled by the shouts in German outside, with a splitting headache and suffering from thirst. The familiar guard appeared on his doorstep, his usual wide grin in place.
“Wash time,” he announced, motioning Etienne outside.
Etienne followed the procession, which consisted of the inmates from his block, all of which represented a darn pitiful picture. Trying to dodge the blows, with which the SS guards were showering upon them unmercifully, they trotted along the corridor to the basins, where they were allowed to spend a miserable three minutes.
Etienne quickly splashed some water on his face, with horror observing the unfortunates, who happened to share his fate. Faces, swollen after last night’s interrogation; bodies – a map of open wounds, burns, and blood, which they tried to wash off as fast as they could, just so their interrogators could draw it again in only a few hours.
To his overwhelming surprise, Etienne was given water and even food, even though it was just a watered-down soup and a piece of stale bread. He was grateful at least for that. The guard even brought him down to the courtyard at dusk, apart from the rest of the inmates who usually took their short daily walks at noon. Etienne knitted his brows, glancing at the guard who nudged him slightly towards one of the benches. A mass of rags lay on it; no, it was a man, motionless and hardly breathing.
“Your friend,” the guard spoke quietly behind his back. “They take him away tonight. Say goodbye.”
As though in a dream, Etienne approached the man, whose chest moved with visible effort, and dropped to his knees in front of him, a violent shudder passing through his whole body.
“Jean,” he whispered in disbelief, taking the lifeless hand in his and pressing it to his chest.
It was indeed Jean Moulin, or what was left of him. There was not one intact spot on his handsome, kind face; bumps and bruises of all shades of purple, blue, and black covered it instead, and the worst of them all – a big, ugly gash on his temple. Etienne, who had accepted his own father’s death with calm dignity three years ago, started crying softly.
Jean moaned and stirred, opening his only eye; the second one was swollen shut.
“Boire,” he asked in a hoarse voice.
“A little water, please,” Etienne turned to the guard at once, pleading with his eyes.
The guard pondered for a moment, then disappeared and soon returned with a mug of water. Etienne gave it to Moulin drop by drop. Jean licked his swollen lips and spoke slowly, with great effort, “I didn’t tell them… anything. You’re all safe.”
With that, he closed his eyes and never opened them again. Only by the slight raising and falling of his chest did Etienne know that he was still alive. He remained by Moulin’s side, never taking his gaze off him but watching him breathe as though under a spell, until the color faded wearily out of the day, until the guard cleared his throat behind his back.
“Time to go.”
Etienne pressed Jean’s hand for the very last time, threw a last tragic look at his broken form, and headed back to the prison, wiping his tears as he went.
“Nein.” The guard’s hand caught his sleeve when he started for the staircase. “You go with the car. Interrogation.”
Etienne stood, motionless, for a very long moment. He struggled to ask something, but words failed him. The guard only sighed and muttered, “tut mir Leid.”
Etienne let him take him to one of the black Citroëns, under the cover of night.
Strangely enough, they passed by Hotel Terminus and drove further along Avenue Berthelot until they stopped in front of Ecole de Santé Militaire, with a long crimson banner fluttering in the wind above its entrance. His guards proceeded inside without saying anything, and Etienne knew better than to ask.
Inside, the place was eerily quiet but brightly lit nevertheless. The guards took him straight to the staircase, all the way to the fourth floor. Soft music was playing from behind the door they stopped in front of. Etienne recognized Chopin’s “L’Héroïque.”
“Enjoy your time,” one of the SS men said, opening the door to the room and forcing him inside. Adjusting himself, Etienne took in his surroundings, newly equipped by the Gestapo for “interrogation purposes.” His head soon started to swim, as a sticky film of sweat covered his back, the picture in front of him turning Etienne cold with horror.
Did they do it on purpose, set their new headquarters in the School of Health? Aware of the frantic beating of his own heart, Etienne shifted his gaze from two baths full of water to the gas oven with pokers resting on its top, to the table with leather straps, to the crude electrical prongs… He would never withstand any of that. Etienne found himself on the verge of collapse, ready to surrender, to fall on the floor and cry, and beg for mercy that would never come.
No one seemed to pay attention to him at first. Barbie continued to play the piano, his features full of tender melancholy; a secretary in the corner typed something from the sheet of paper in front of her, her painted nails hitting the keys angrily. An SS man, with his sleeves rolled up and his military jacket resting on the back of his chair was busy chewing on a sandwich. Another was staring at the opposite wall, his head moving slightly in time with the music as he took lazy drags on his cigarette. It all seemed so surreal.
Finally, Barbie finished his improvised concerto, bowed with mocking bashfulness to his audience, who clapped diligently and turned to face Etienne at last.
“Ach, Monsieur le Sous-Préfet!” He greeted his victim almost cheerfully, a smile of pleasure passing over his face. “How did you like my Chopin? No, tell me first, how do you find my new headquarters? I equipped everything here myself.”
His voice sounded full of pride with such an accomplishment. Etienne stared at him in utter astonishment, not knowing what to say.
“I see you’re speechless.” Barbie grinned as his eyes shone dangerously. “That’s quite all right. I’ve equipped several rooms like this one specifically with the purpose to untie speechless tongues.”
Without moving from his seat, he gestured languidly to his men. Both rose to their feet at once, their relaxed poses replaced with fierce determination in a matter of seconds. Like well-trained hounds, Etienne thought to himself bitterly.
“Undress.”
Etienne didn’t move a finger.
“All of your clothes off – now!” the second one barked, edging closer.
Etienne pulled his sweater off but fumbled with the buttons on the shirt underneath; his fingers shook so much that it took him quite some time to get rid of the shirt. Barbie watched him with a somewhat bored expression.
“Underwear too.”
While the two henchmen proceeded to tie his feet and wrists with thick rope, Barbie resumed his playing. “I’ll tell you a little secret, Delattre. I have an official order to keep your life. Which does not mean that I won’t turn it into a living hell in the near future. Your friend Max has already told us everything. I just need you to corroborate his story. If you do, I’ll sign your release papers and, even though you can’t return to your official duties, you may retire, live peacefully in the countryside, and forget me like a bad dream.”
Etienne stared at the stick which the two SS men put under the rope and with its help submerged him in ice-cold water in one of the tubs. This time they mercifully left his head above the surface.
“Let me know when you’re ready to start talking,” Barbie said and soon seemed to completely forget about him, closing his eyes once again with a half-dreamy smile as his fingers caressed the keys.
The SS men returned to their respective places, once again lifting their legs on top of the table. One resumed smoking and enjoying the music; a
nother was staring out of the window at nothing. Etienne’s body started trembling violently, in an effort to warm itself. Soon, his muscles, joints, and even his bones began to ache from the ice-cold water. He bit the inside of his lip just to stifle a moan and felt blood filling his mouth. Barbie continued to play his Chopin.
Bar “Moulin à Vent,” Lyon. June 24, 1943
Philippe signaled the waiter to bring him and his new friends another round of drinks. He had walked in thirty minutes ago, mixing with the evening crowd, and immediately ordered himself a bottle of the most expensive wine, throwing cash on the counter. Almost instantly, attracted by the sight of his money, two girls with brightly painted faces flocked to his table; soon, men joined them as Philippe started buying round after round, intentionally being loud and attracting as much attention to himself as he only could; he needed a big audience for what he had in mind, and as this was a place which Obersturmführer Barbie frequented, there were sure to be collabos willing to make a call to their German patron and claim their reward money. The bar owner himself was a collabo; Philippe knew this for a fact. It was him, Philippe, who had delivered a little black coffin to his home address and left it in his mailbox. He didn’t stay to see the man’s face when he had discovered a small note in the coffin’s bed, advising him to hang himself before Combat came to deal with him. Those little coffins had become quite a popular form of amusement among Combat members – a rather inventive means of terrorizing the collaborators and making them think twice next time they would go snitching to their German masters.
“Where do you come from?” Suzanne, if it even was her real name, chirped in Philippe’s ear, settling firmly on his lap, claiming her territory much to her friend’s disappointment. Philippe barely restrained himself from shoving the connasse off. She went with Germans too; maybe she was waiting for one of her clients here before Philippe showed up. “I’ve never seen you here before.”
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