The Maquis disappeared before the armed squads arrived from the west, who arrived to discover the celebratory crowd outside. People quickly dispersed too; only watchful eyes followed the Germans from behind closed shutters. The Germans didn’t feel safe here anymore. They didn’t feel at home. Good. Let them feel scared, too.
Lyon, December 1943
Klaus touched his new Iron Cross – First Class, with Swords – with reverence. “For the high efficiency in the pursuit of crime and his indefatigable devotion to the battle against Resistance organizations in France,” from Reichsführer Himmler, personally. His mood, however, was dampened once again by more reports about successful sabotage missions, carried out by the maquis – damned forest partisans, the biggest thorn in his backside as of now. The group in Ain was particularly insufferable, with their little parade, news of which the clandestine newspapers carried all over the country. How dare they! Right under his nose, no less! And now, a couple of collaborators in Nantua, which was also in his, Klaus’s, jurisdiction, was seized by a group of résistants. They stripped both husband and wife naked, painted swastikas on their bodies and made them walk the streets in this manner, as the crowd gleefully watched. This was getting out of hand.
Klaus ignored Odette calling out to him from the bed where she was munching on some sweets and dialed the number of the reception in his office in Ecole.
“Put the Wehrmacht on the phone for me.” He stared at his own reflection the whole time while waiting. “Yes. Obersturmführer Barbie speaking. I need five hundred men by tomorrow morning. I’ll supply you with a special train.”
Getting confirmation from the local Kommandant, Klaus grinned at his twin in the mirror. Let them walk free one more day, thinking that they are above the law. Here, he was the law. Soon enough, they would learn what it cost to cross him.
Odette – her real name was Antoinette actually, but Klaus liked the name Odette much better, and so, that’s what he called her – was watching him with adoration radiating from her pale blue eyes. She beamed, catching him looking at her, and instantly outstretched her lean arms to him. She’d been with him for over a year already, loyal like a dog, beautiful like a picture.
Klaus sat on the edge of the bed, studying her face closely. He moved his hand to tuck a lock of golden hair behind her ear, but she caught it midway and kissed his fingers with infinite gentleness. Scheiße, she actually loves me, Klaus thought to himself, marveling at such a strange fact. Not the clothes, not the money, not the jewelry, but me. She really does. How interesting!
Even though his men considered her to be his regular mistress, Klaus always thought of the girl as a mere convenience who was there when he wanted. He brought her with him to his office quite often and even to the interrogation rooms. The first time he did it was just to see how she would react; he wanted to see her frightened, appalled, disgusted even… But she only sat obediently at his desk as he beat some woman about the face, nearly yanking her hair out of her scalp, and smiled bravely each time he shifted his gaze towards her. Klaus eventually got bored with the woman that he was beating, walked over to Odette, put her on top of the table and fucked her right there. She was looking at him with the same adoration in her eyes like she was looking at a God of some sort… Klaus liked Odette, just because she knew how to look at him in the right way.
“Do you believe we will win this war, Mimiche?” He addressed her by her nickname.
“Of course, you will!” She beamed again, revealing two adorable dimples on her fresh, pale-pink cheeks. “You are the strongest.”
Klaus traced his thumb over her full lips. “Me or the German Army?”
“You are! You will beat them all alone, and you won’t even need an army.”
He snorted softly, wishing he had the same confidence. The situation was shit, through and through. The Russians beat the Wehrmacht back almost back to Poland; Rommel was done for in Africa; the Italians seemed to be happy to welcome the allied invasion in the south of their country, and even the French were getting bolder and bolder in their attacks.
“Will you stay with me?” She wormed her way under his arm and put her pretty head on his lap.
He stroked her hair absent-mindedly. “I have to go to work, Mimiche.”
“Can I come with you then?”
“Won’t you get tired of watching your compatriots being beaten for hours and hours?”
“I just want to be with you.”
There it was, that look again. Klaus smiled with a rare tender emotion passing over his face. He would remember her with such fondness one day.
“How can I say no to you, my little Mimiche? Get dressed. Let’s go. We have a lot of work to do.”
The following morning, Klaus stepped onto the platform of the railway station in Nantua, five hundred Wehrmacht soldiers jumping down onto the snow-covered ground after him. Within an hour, they had the town under their control, searching every house, turning every nook and cranny upside down, until a hundred and twenty men were herded onto the train to be executed in reprisal for insubordination. First, they were looking for proof of the accused belonging to the Resistance – leaflets laying openly in their homes, clandestine newspapers, even tricolors. But Klaus was becoming impatient when they didn’t gather enough people for his liking, and the soldiers started selecting them randomly. After that, Klaus watched as the Wehrmacht troops put posters on every wall, in which their action was explained as a punishment and a warning to those who might consider besmirching the reputation of the Germans in the future.
On their way back, Klaus also made a stop at Oyonnax, where the parade for Armistice Day was held. Followed by his armed escort, he walked calmly to the building of the mairie, where he arrested the deputy mayor, the former mayor and an industrialist who happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. Their bodies were left on the roadside outside the town. By the end of the day, Klaus felt much better. Maybe, his Mimiche was right. Maybe he was, indeed, the strongest of them all.
19
Berlin, January 1944
Kamille was in bed when the sound of the front door unlocking fell faintly on her ear. She stole a glance at her watch – two in the morning. Quickly snatching the shawl that lay forgotten on top of the blankets, Kamille wrapped herself in it and rushed to the hallway to help Jochen with his overcoat. Wet dew of melted snow covered it, dampening Kamille’s hands as she helped her husband. He was trying his best to manage by himself with his only arm, but Kamille actually enjoyed the role of being the doting wife. He grumbled good-naturedly but didn’t seem to mind.
“How was the meeting?” she asked in a hushed tone, helping him remove his boots as he reclined on a small settee in the hall. That simple task was still beyond his powers, and he had to rely on Kamille’s help.
“It was good.”
“You’re not going to tell me anything?”
“No. It’s for your own safety.”
Kamille helped him to his feet. He left his cane leaning against the wall near the umbrella bucket. Around the house, he had learned to manage without it.
“I’ll just go wash my face,” he told her, making his way to the bathroom.
Kamille padded barefoot after him and watched her husband splash cool water on his cheeks, which were burning despite the freezing temperatures outside. He always returned from those secret meetings with Erwin and the others in the same state of agitation. Or maybe excitement. From the little that she managed to find out from Marthe, from whom Erwin couldn’t quite keep any secrets, they planned to overthrow the government, no less. Of course, Jochen was thrilled.
The man who had organized the resistance within the Wehrmacht was an army officer himself, and just like Jochen and Erwin, he had nearly perished at the front. They returned back to Germany grim and disillusioned, angry beyond words after they witnessed firsthand the utter ignorance with which war matters were handled. Their own Führer had been sending more and more men to their death, demanding the impossible, refusin
g to retreat when it was most needed, moving armies on a whim as if it was nothing. He was mad; they understood it finally. Germany was going to lose the war. To save their own country, they would have to kill the Führer.
Kamille wrote it all in her letters to Augustine, carefully coding them. Augustine promised to see what the situation was like in Paris and whether local Germans would support the new government.
“I found out from our comrades, who are in contact with the SOE, that the allies are planning an invasion of the North soon,” Augustine wrote in one of her most recent letters. “Your German résistants should hurry up if they want to be in charge of the government by the time the Allies land.”
Jochen promised to pass on the message to his fellow conspirators. It was in their interests, to deal with Hitler sooner rather than later. After all, if they wanted to have peace talks with the Allies, they needed to act fast. The problem was that it was easier said than done. Getting close to the Führer, armed, and shooting him at point blank range was not an option; it was a well-known rule for all officers that they had to leave their weapons in a separate room before they were admitted to the Führer’s quarters.
The second problem was securing the help of a man who would have been prominent enough to even get to those quarters. No one would allow Jochen or Erwin inside; their rank was simply too low for that. And then, there was the question of the future government. Who was to be in charge? Whose name was good enough for the whole of Germany to willingly submit to his appointment as the new leader of the country? Finally, who, from the highest-ranking field marshals or even generals would agree to that, to break their oath in such a manner and betray the leader whom they swore to serve until death? But the Wehrmacht seemed to have had enough of the bloodshed on the front and soon, the generals and even field marshals, according to Marthe, became willing members of the conspiracy. The SS, however, remained a problem. They would rather die than break their oath. And they would kill anyone who would try to harm their Führer and the regime he represented.
“I’m afraid for you,” Kamille spoke in a mild voice as Jochen dabbed his wet face with a towel, catching her thoughtful gaze in the mirror.
“Why?”
Kamille just stared at him, misty-eyed.
“Did you speak to Marthe again?”
“She’s a friend of mine. We tell each other everything. And besides, Erwin allows her to help him. She delivers messages to some people for him.” Kamille’s voice sounded hurt for some reason.
“And you’re sending information to the French Resistance,” Jochen countered, his lips twitching into a smile. “Don’t you think you’re doing enough?”
“It’s nothing, just letters. Who would think that silly girls’ talk could be coded?”
“I don’t want anything to happen to you, Kamille.” He walked over to her and kissed her gently on her temple, caressing the dark tresses that cascaded down her spine. “I wouldn’t survive it.”
“And I wouldn’t survive if anything happened to you; don’t you see? You’re being unfair. Allow me to help you, please! I can be of use, I promise.”
He was looking at her with infinite love, infinite sorrow in his eyes, as though apologizing for all the dangers he had brought unwittingly into her life. Kamille only shook her head slightly, as if reading his thoughts; no, you didn’t. You made me the happiest woman alive. I wouldn’t trade that for anything in the world. I'm with you till the end, whenever it comes, and I'll die with a smile on my face for I lived a good life by your side.
Paris, January 1944
Giselle opened the window and shivered against a shimmering cloud of crystal powder that the sudden gust of wind threw in her face. It was snowing again; Paris was dusted with white, opalescent and pristine in its frozen glory. With a sort of grim humor, she placed both hands on top of the windowpane, staring into this infinite blankness. Behind the window of the hotel, in which Giselle had been living with Sievers since last summer, the night was falling. She threw back her chestnut locks, holding them against the wind, peering into the street downstairs. There he was, precise as a clock, exiting his car. He glanced up as though sensing her intense gaze, and tipped his cap. Giselle sneered and slammed the window shut.
According to their agreement, Sievers kept her in one of the rooms in his own suite, with an armed sentry keeping watch outside in the hallway, bien sûr. The suite didn’t differ much from an ordinary prison cell from a freedom-restriction point of view. He did allow her outside when she asked him, but only with an escort of two severe-looking, plain-clothed Gestapo agents trailing after her within a few steps. Sievers taunted her sometimes by making her taste his drink when she would offer to make him a glass, but more for the fun of it. They both knew perfectly well that Giselle didn’t have access to any sort of poison and besides, as of now he was the only man who stood between her and Barbie, and Giselle didn’t fancy the prospect of being returned to Lyon, in the slightest.
Giselle grew restless within a matter of only a month; Sievers half-jokingly suggested she return to her original profession.
“What are you complaining about? You have plenty of time on your hands; why don’t you use it wisely and write a book? You are a writer, after all.”
“I don’t know what to write.”
“Write about the war. Your first book was about the war, wasn’t it?”
“It was fiction. Fiction is always easier to write. Besides, no one would want to read my story.”
“I would.”
Giselle only scoffed, thoroughly faking disdain, but soon gave up and, having nothing better to occupy herself with, started writing. In an actual journal, by hand – something she had never done before. It was more of a diary than a novel, but she didn’t care as long as it put her mind at ease and helped her sort out her memories.
“The walls of Paris are of the mourning color nowadays. The hope that we still nursed in September is now completely abandoned. Another winter will pass under the yoke of German rule. No one is coming to save us…”
Sievers advanced into the room, appearing to be in his usual brooding mood as well. He walked over to the window near which Giselle was lounging in an armchair with her legs tucked under her, read the last paragraph from her journal and chuckled softly.
“They’re coming. Sooner than you think.”
Giselle straightened ever so slightly, alert and anxious.
Sievers wandered slowly towards the window, clasping his hands behind his stiff back. “We’re getting more and more intelligence. This summer they’ll make their landing. And then…”
The room grew silent. Giselle was peering into his seemingly impassive face illuminated by the amber glare of the lamp, searching for more clues.
“My reports say the SOE is doubling the amount of ammunition they’re dropping to your maquis. The Haute-Vienne département has been unofficially admitted as being a ‘no-go’ area for our troops or transports. It seems that it has completely gone under the control of the partisans.” He sank into a chair next to her, releasing a long, bitter laugh. “See? You were so sad when I walked in; now, you’re smiling. Aren’t I a good friend for always knowing how to make you smile?”
“A friend?” Giselle grinned in amusement, leafing through her journal absent-mindedly. “You’re my jailer. I’m your hostage. I wouldn’t call such a relationship friendship.”
“That could be true, but consider this, my beautiful Laure; our lives are connected by an invisible thread right now. You depend on me to survive, and soon I will start depending on you. Perhaps I already do. I’ll need you to meet with your friends from the local Resistance.” The leather upholstery rustled as he shifted in his seat, his tone suddenly business-like. “I want you to get to someone from the SOE through them.”
“Are you mad?” Giselle burst out laughing. “I’m quite sure there’s a price on my head, as of now, since you’re holding me here in your suite – a fact that most definitely gave way to certain rumors on the natur
e of our relationship. You also make me walk around with your Gestapo henchmen as an escort. Hardly anyone from the local Resistance would be stupid enough to let me even get close to them.”
Sievers flashed a smile at her, the usual impish gleam visible in his eyes.
“A member of your cell, who happens to take care of your niece Violette, is operating here in Paris under the name of Mariette Savatier. I’m sure she won’t refuse you.”
A shadow of confusion passed over Giselle’s features. “This is the first time I’ve heard her name. And what happened to my sister if this woman is looking after Violette?”
“Nothing for you to worry about. She went to Germany as a volunteer for the Red Cross and is living there now with her husband, Hauptmann Hartmann.”
“Why didn’t she take Violette with her?”
“My dear, with your celebrated Allies, relentlessly bombing German cities, Berlin included, I’m sure that Madame Hartmann wisely decided that her daughter is safer here, in Paris. As much I would love to dwell more on your tangled family affairs, we have more pressing matters, Laure. Go talk to Mariette tonight. I’ll give you the address. Tell her that I want to talk to someone from the SOE, and I have something of value to offer them. I’ve been considering for quite some time your idea with the trial and you being my witness and all, and I’ve decided, why bother anyone with my persona? Wouldn’t it be easier for everyone if I just disappeared at the end of the war?” He toyed with his gloves as he spoke.
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