Erika shook her head and turned back to her husband. “Be careful, René. That warehouse was too close a call.”
“That goes for the three of you, as well. Remember, the doctor’s our go-between for messages. If there’s any break-down in communications we leave our coded notes, and I can always ask Monsieur LeBlanc to contact you at the farmhouse. Just let the doctor know when you reach Morlanne.” He sipped his Bordeaux and settled back, obviously favoring his injured butt cheek.
CHAPTER FIVE
Paris, Occupied France
28 August 1941
More than anything else, it was the constant ache in her feet and legs. For long hours any slouch brought a slap to the face, and leaning against the wall to ease the pressure brought a suffocating blow to her belly. The nighttime hours passed under the harsh glare of an overhead fixture. At the desk in the corner sat a chisel-faced German woman, a study in gray. From time to time a man in uniform entered the antechamber, stood expressionless before her, and then wandered off. But that pig of an agent from the arrest made certain Marita stood stock-still to the verge of collapse. Argent had said that soldiers at attention should never lock their knees, advice which kept her upright during the long night. But now there was that incessant ache in her feet and cramping of the instep.
Only once did she receive permission to visit the latrine, but the dour woman from the desk had hovered over the stall, allowing her no privacy, and the moment she was done she was back in the antechamber. No washing hands or rinsing her dry mouth at the tap. Glancing at her image in the restroom mirror, Marita had been shocked by the toll of the long night, her eyes bloodshot and sunken, her hair in total disarray.
Back at attention, her request for water inspired the pig to offer “I’ve something for you to suck on if you’re thirsty.” The gray woman merely turned another page of her magazine, ignoring both crass comment and Marita’s call for compassion.
Worse was surely yet to come, but she had prepared herself for months, knowing the work with Argent carried inevitable dangers. She had only herself to blame for what lay ahead, deserving all she would suffer. It had been so easy for others to forgive her—even Ryan had tried to reason away her guilt—but how could she forgive the destruction of her own family? As a miniscule cog in a giant espionage machine, it was time to pay the piper. How they had tracked her down didn’t really matter now. Enough to know that she’d been compromised, and she would never reveal her contacts, no matter how serious the abuse.
She was a fighter, always had been. Others had belittled the sisters for wanting to have their own club. Few other women had accomplished such a feat in the face of tradition and male domination. Now she would prove herself the equal of any partisan who saw the evil in collaboration and preferred torture and death to squealing.
But oh, please spare my girls!
Too late for Florian—the horror of seeing his slumped body on the stairs tore at her heart. True to the end. But Ryan was resilient. He’d get out just fine, no doubts there. In ’38 he’d been at his wit’s end, weakened and devastated, yet she’d loved him all the more and he’d survived to fight again. Now he was back and stronger than ever.
There was so much she might have told him had the Gestapo never come. The man had lived in her heart for over a decade. She thought of those blue eyes that never wavered, the dazzling smile. He always made her feel special, and she knew he desired the quickness of her mind as well as the pleasures of her bed. He would enter her life and then leave again, time after time, and with each departure would go any hope of permanence, of commitment. Still, she loved him and gave no blame.
The agents at the club had allowed her the overcoat and little else. She hugged herself tightly, fighting for warmth. Hours without movement had set her teeth chattering. Oh, for a bath to wash away the filth of those groping fingers. Abandoning the red pumps would have made standing easier, but the obese agent had ordered them back on with a leer. “Your legs look far better in heels, but you can lose the coat anytime.” He knew she’d been left with only her panties.
The woman at the desk made no effort to conceal her disdain, pretending not to notice Marita’s suffering, her eyes glued to a magazine. A pre-war Vogue, it appeared. As if that frumpy Boche bitch could ever grasp Parisian fashion. From time to time she looked over, arched her brows and pursed her lips, “suitable treatment for a French slut” written in boldface. To throttle that scrawny neck, to rip those hideous eyeglasses from that smug scowl! Suddenly aware of her slouch, Marita drew back her shoulders as the pig waddled toward her. She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of another slap or crude grope.
The office just beyond the desk brightened with the first light of dawn. Again she thought of Ryan, of their last conversation, of the compromising paperwork in her handwriting hidden beneath the carpet of the office steps. Had the Gestapo somehow found them? No, impossible. As for Ryan, he would do his best to track her down, but the Gestapo was too powerful for any one individual to break its secrets, to thwart its plans. How much she still loved him. Always had, always would.
And Argent, that sweet boy with the kind heart—especially for a Boche—and that everlasting cock of his. He was supposed to have driven her home after closing that night. What a mess he must have found at the club, the place devoid of customers, her office in ruins, her favorite dress on the floor and—saddest of all—dear Florian staining the carpet with his blood. Florian, never to see his wife and children again.
She swallowed hard and wiped her eyes with her coat sleeve. Ever since the arrival of Serge she had feared his gang of thugs. Argent had stayed at her side to protect her, lain in her arms, and eased her longing whenever he could. But that Abwehr colonel, who obviously also loved Argent, had other demands on his young agent’s time. Eyes shut, she shook her mind free of such rambling thoughts and worries. They would only weaken her. Let the bastards do their worst. She had done what she must.
A pudgy hand squeezed her ass, jolting her back to attention. “Head up, little lady,” his breath as foul as his mind. “The big man’s finally on his way.” Activity in the hall drove the troll from the room at last, bringing momentary relief.
The arriving officer was tall and slender, perhaps thirty and impeccably groomed. His tweed suit appeared custom-tailored. She found this type so prevalent among the Boches—those finely-chiseled features and unnaturally ruddy cheeks, those eyes so bright when not soused to the gills. “Well now, what have we here?” Such a polite contrast to the ill-kept swine. “Your name, mademoiselle?”
“Lesney.” Meeting his gaze, forcing herself erect, fearing to collapse in front of her interrogator.
“Your full name, s’il-vous-plâit.” His voice cultured, his French perfect. Despite herself, she relaxed a bit, sensing some unhoped-for kindness after so much brutality.
“Marieanne Dominique Lesney.”
“And called ‘Marita,’ if I’m not mistaken?”
“By friends.”
“You are Jewish, Mademoiselle Lesney?”
“My mother yes, my father no. Neither particularly religious. You Boches make the rules, so you decide what I am.”
He showed no reaction. “Mademoiselle Lesney, are you aware of the charges brought against you?”
Her rage surfaced despite herself. “Against me? Monsieur l’inspecteur, it was your brutes who entered my club, shot dead my friend and bodyguard and physically assaulted my person. They accuse me of espionage, then plant a suitcase in my office, suggesting an ‘illegal transmitter’ of some sort. As if I would know how to operate such a thing!” She drew herself up as tall as her exhausted frame allowed, her eyes piercing. “It is I who should bring charges!”
“My apologies, mademoiselle. Please calm yourself. Not all my men are capable of such boorish behavior, but a few could always use further training in good manners. Allow me to get to the bottom of all this.” He offered a casual grin, his voice unnaturally gracious and accommodating. “Come along now—let’s
move into my office and make you comfortable? If you were treated inappropriately we will certainly make amends.”
He guided her gently by the arm, her legs scarcely able to handle her weight. The sullen woman followed, a stenographer’s pad under her arm, and dropped a file folder noisily on the desk. “Do have a seat, mademoiselle.” He gestured to the solitary wooden chair facing his desk and the window, the daylight harsh on her eyes. The stenographer sat in the corner, writing block flipped open, pencil ready.
The man perused the file before taking a seat behind the desk, his back to the light. His features began to dissipate, his head haloed by the painful brightness. “Now then, we shall take our time examining the charges against you, and see what justification we might find, if any, for having disrupted your evening.”
She flexed her legs and feet, chasing the pain from the soles and insteps. Her belly was bruised and swollen. She dearly wanted to massage her rear cheek where the pig had left his last fingerprints. Once the interrogator leaned back and lit a cigarette, she slipped off the pumps. The smell of the tobacco gnawed at her gut. “Genuine Turkish, you know.” He offered the pack but she shook her head. He shrugged, “As you wish,” and tapped off the glowing ash. “I am Detective Inspector Röttig, for the record. Now let’s get to the root of this unfortunate matter.”
The lengthy interrogation confirmed that the Gestapo knew nothing of her actual espionage activity. Röttig would surely have produced any real evidence, revealed a snitch or a breakdown in the network, brought up dates, times, and places. He would certainly have boasted of the arrest of her girls, or even of Argent. No, they had yet to turn up anything damning. Instead, he alluded to unspecified “treasonous acts” and always that damning transmitter “found” in her office. Who knew if that battered case contained anything at all? And the killing of Florian was already written off as self-defense.
Full daylight gradually turned her interrogator into a talking silhouette and made her fatigued eyes water. She looked for a wall clock but found none, though midday had to be approaching. Her wits felt rattled from exhaustion and her stomach grumbled from hunger and an unsettled gut. She placed a hand on her abdomen and flinched. The stumpy bully had done damage with those blows to her belly.
“Please consider the difficulty of my position, mademoiselle. Nothing would give me greater pleasure than to send you on your way with a satisfying meal and a quick lift back to your apartment. And, of course, our sincere apologies for any disruption to your life.” He lit another cigarette. “You must be drained after such a trying night. But with charges as serious as these,” one faultlessly-groomed fingernail tapped the file, “my hands are effectively tied.” He rubbed his wrists together, miming restraints, before gathering the file contents and closing the folder. “You will, of course, receive a fair trial—we assure you of that. But your collusion with the enemy appears conclusive. And despite your claim to the contrary, the Gestapo does not manufacture evidence—your wireless transmitter was of English design. Very incriminatory, n’est-ce’pas?”
“Am I to have an attorney?”
“Of course. The court will provide one should you have no one to call.”
“And may I call my family to let them know I’m here?”
He held up the folder. “But, Mademoiselle Lesney, you have no family, remember? Unless you’re inclined to put us in touch with some of your co-conspirators, then there’s little more we can do.” He crushed his barely-smoked cigarette in the tin ashtray and tapped another from the pack. “But do bear in mind—should you be open to revealing other partisans or spies, Jews or otherwise, anyone with treasonous intent against the Reich, then it’s always possible that your charges could be lessened, your punishment made less severe.”
Marita braced herself. “And what’s to be my punishment, once your court finds me guilty of these charges?” The strain of the long, thirsty hours was beginning to tell in her voice.
“Why, I don’t wish to be cruel, but you’ll learn soon enough. The Reich punishes spies with something first developed right here in lovely Paris.” He held the smoke in his lungs without exhaling. “Your Doctor Guillotin’s famous machine.” Smoke escaping from his lips and nostrils engulfed him in an aura of gray. “It’s quick, relatively clean, and definitely effective.”
She swallowed her gasp. “I wish to contact that attorney now.”
“I regret you must remain in our custody for the moment, but we’ll transfer you soon to Cherche-Midi for safekeeping. An attorney will contact you there. Marita cringed at the mention of the notorious Parisian prison for political detainees. “That’s protocol for cases as serious as yours.” He withdrew a small rectangle of cardstock from a paperclip on the inside cover of the folder. “But it’s clear you must prepare a proper defense. Here is the name of one man who might offer help in this difficult matter.” He slid over the calling card. Marita clasped her coat tightly to her neck as she bent forward to retrieve it, suddenly very conscious of her nakedness beneath the wool.
She read the name on the card and looked away, her gaze following the rising trail of smoke from the interrogator’s cigarette. A chill chased up her spine. Serge Bergieux. And now it all made sense.
Despite efforts to escape the fear, she had little strength left to resist. After Röttig’s hours-long interrogation, always posing the same questions and demands, always with the utmost politeness, Marita now knew that Serge held the Parisian Gestapo in his pocket. She would find no relief, and certainly no release. Her life was forfeit. Her seemingly clever trap for the extortionist, orchestrated with the help of Argent and von Haldheim, had somehow turned on her. Now it would cost her everything.
Röttig also appeared tired when he finally conceded defeat, stepping away from the light and revealing his long-hidden features. Marita had given him nothing and she knew her fate lay in the unforgiving hands of the man she’d condemned to Göring’s wrath. “Well then, Mademoiselle Lesney, I regret your situation must now worsen. You will find few of my colleagues as understanding as I, or as well-mannered.”
He spoke briefly into the phone: “She’s ready.” Standing beside her chair, he placed his cigarette to her lips. “Go ahead—you’ll need it.” She could no longer resist and drew the smoke deeply into her lungs. Coughing, she returned the cigarette with a nod and slipped back into her red heels.
Thankfully, the swine of an agent who had made her night a hell did not return to lead her away. Instead a matron responded to Röttig’s call. She wore a long gray skirt, a black shirt with a Nazi Party pin and sensible black shoes. Coaxing Marita to stand, she gently clicked the handcuffs closed behind her back. “Please do understand, sweetie, we must treat you as the state criminal you are,” the woman’s voice not unkind, “and we can’t have you trying anything stupid before you reach the basement. It’s happened before, and what a mess, you see.”
Marita was numb with exhaustion, her tongue so dry she could barely speak. “Just do with me as you will.”
“But, my dear, we’ve no choice in the matter, do we?”
Röttig now stared out the window with her file beneath his arm. He didn’t turn around. The sour stenographer folded her writing block with a grunt and left the room with a self-satisfied grin.
The gray-haired matron guided Marita through a maze of hallways to a lift. Two secretaries looked up and then quickly away when Marita caught their eye. At basement level they entered a long corridor with pea-soup green walls. The male guard unlocked a high, grated door and bowed with a sweep of the arm, as if inviting the women to join him for a dance. The matron returned his wink. But it wasn’t the site of the cell block which clenched Marita’s gut. As the door behind her slammed shut, heart-rending cries for mercy echoed up the corridor. The matron smiled sweetly and shook her head, as if to excuse the disturbance, then guided Marita onward.
She came to a halt outside an interrogation room, adjusting her thick hosiery as she complained of tired feet and having to deal with concrete
floors. In the center of the open room a woman lay strapped to a table, her face lost in a mass of sweat-soaked hair, her sobs and cries agonizing to hear. Two brutes took turns clubbing the poor victim with rubber truncheons. Her body showed a mass of contusions, her breasts now shapeless, bruised flesh. The thudding of the bludgeons brought bile to Marita’s throat and she tried to turn away, but the wardress held her firmly by the elbow. “It’s always a bit hard to watch the first time around, my dear,” the matron nodding in understanding, “but it gets so much easier with time. And believe me, that woman could end it all right now by confessing her guilt.” She pushed the eyeglasses up the bridge of her nose. “Eventually they always do, you know.” The matron offered a compassionate smile. “Now come along, we have a nice cell waiting for you.” The victim’s tortured cries had weakened to a pitiable whimpering with each successive blow.
Farther up the hall an equally-distressing sound evoked an animal held in a leg-hold trap. The matron prodded her into motion. Marita focused straight ahead as they passed the next door but the wardress pivoted her by the shoulders to face another open chamber. Agents had submerged a woman in a tub filled with water and ice. Only her head extended above the frigid surface. She suddenly slipped into delirium and her cries for mercy ceased. The men dragged her out onto the concrete floor. Her blue limbs shuddered spasmodically, her jaws chattered so loudly Marita thought they might break. She finally found the strength to turn away.
“Now don’t you worry, little one,” the matron patted Marita on the back, “it’s rare to actually die this way. The cold just loosens the tongue, and that’s good for the Reich, correct?” Marita bit her lower lip to control her anger and stared along the row of cell doors on the right side of the hall. She knew one was meant for her. She wondered which torture best suited her crime. What punishment for questioning a Führer’s right to conquer the world at the expense of its weakest citizens? And what had she earned for condemning her own family to death at that same tyrant’s hands.
Fulcrum of Malice Page 5