His skin tingled.
“Take care of yourself,” she said softly.
He slid her hand from his cheek, and then kissed her palm. “Goodbye, Celeste.”
“Adieu.” She slipped away and disappeared into the parlor.
Bruno, a flurry of emotions swirling inside him, left the house and made his way to the train station. He’d arrived in Lille in a vulnerable state, and Celeste had given him succor in his hour of need. He loathed being unfaithful to Anna, and he expected his amour to be limited to one night of passion. But each evening in Lille, he’d succumbed to his desire to seek solace in her touch and affection. It wasn’t unusual for soldiers, especially in Lille where the occupied town was filled with brothels and street prostitutes, to seek the company of a woman. He’d attempted to rationalize that his moments of weakness would be forgotten after the war.But how will I look at Anna and not feel ashamed for what I’ve done? How would she feel if she knew about Celeste?
For most of Bruno’s life, he’d detested his parents’ promiscuous behavior. His mother spent an inordinate amount of time alone at the family chalet in Switzerland, and Bruno was quite certain that his father had another mistress, if not more. It sickened him to think that he was repeating the cycle of his father, as if he’d inherited a trait that precluded him from being faithful.
Despite his anger with himself for his actions, he didn’t blame Celeste for their affair. Like him, she was alone and suffering. And Celeste, a former courtesan to a fallen German officer, feared that her family in Paris would rebuke her for being a collaborator with Germany.She is doing what she needs to survive, he’d thought as she slept with her head on his chest, her breath flowing in waves over his skin. Celeste had asked nothing from him, other than his affection, and he’d done the same. They were, Bruno believed, two people pacifying their war-driven psychological pain through intimacy.
Twenty kilometers from Lille, Bruno arrived at an ammunition depot, behind the reserve line of the front. In the distance, German and Allied artillery cannons boomed. A familiar odor of expelled gunpowder penetrated his nostrils, turning his stomach sour. His thoughts of Celeste and Anna faded and were replaced by his allegiance to the Fatherland. He reported for duty, and then he went off to inspect the ammunition depot, only to find that the large supply of phosgene shells and mortars, which he had arranged to be shipped from Lille, had not been put to use.
Bruno, his veins pumping with irritation, went to an officers’ bunker and located the highest-ranking available officer—Major Brandt.
“Sir,” Bruno said, saluting the major. “I’m Oberleutnant Wahler. I’m responsible for transporting phosgene shells to this section of the front. May I ask why the shells have not been put to use?”
The major—a thin, middle-aged man with hooded, bloodshot eyes—took a gulp from a flask. “Kainz, the general of artillery, has ordered the use of only high-explosive shells.”
Bruno’s skin turned hot. “I’m here to implement the orders of Fritz Haber, head of the Chemistry Section in the Ministry of War, to increase the rate of phosgene shells.”
The major shook his head. “I’m under the orders of Kainz, and we’ll continue to fire high-explosive shells until he informs me otherwise.”
“Perhaps General Kainz is not yet aware of the German Empire’s plans,” Bruno said. “Would you like to confer with him, or shall I arrange to speak with the general myself.”
“He went to the front line to gain a better view of how mortar fire was penetrating the Allied trenches, and he got stuck there when the French commenced a sustained bombardment.” The major took a swig from his flask. “That was twenty-four hours ago. He’s likely hunkered in a dugout waiting for the bombardment to end.”
Damn it.“Is it possible for me to get a message to General Kainz?”
“Nein,” the major said. “I will not risk the life of a messenger during a bombardment. You’ll have to wait until the firing ends.”
But that will be when the Allies commence their attack. An attack always follows a sustained bombardment.His chest muscles tightened. “Then I will deliver the request to General Kainz.”
“You’re a fool,” the major grumbled. “You’ll be under heavy shellfire before you reach the support lines.”
The major’s words stung Bruno. But the weight of his sins, combined with his hope that Haber’s chemical weapons would eventually bring an end to the war, compelled him to step to a table with a trench map. “Sir, with all due respect, Iwillreach the general. And I would appreciate if you would show me the area of the line where he would likely be seeking shelter.”
The major paused, taking a sip from his flask. He approached Bruno, and then placed his finger on the map. “Here.”
Bruno scanned the diagram, memorizing the location.
“It will be easy to find, but hell to get there.” The major drew a deep breath and exhaled.
A smell of schnapps filled Bruno’s nose. “Danke, sir.”
“Good luck, Wahler.”
Bruno saluted and left. With nothing more than a service pistol and trench coat, he made his way toward the front line. A rumble of explosions filled the air, like a continuous roar of thunder. In the distance, fountains of earth spewed toward a clouded sky. In his haste to leave, he’d failed to bring a respirator, and he hoped that the enemy bombardment would not include a gas attack.
At the reserve line he encountered a hail of enemy shellfire. A large section of the trench had been blasted away, leaving mounds of dirt, rock, and mutilated bodies.Oh, God.He hunkered into a cavity, which had been carved into the side of the trench, and took in gulps of air. He gathered his courage and sprang from his pit. He ran, his boots squelching in the muck, until he reached the support line trench. The proximity and intensity of explosions grew. His heart rate spiked, and a concussive blast toppled him to the ground. Stunned, he crawled on his hands and knees and rolled into a dugout. Under the flickering glow of aHindenburglicht, several soldiers helped Bruno to his feet and checked him for wounds.
“You’re a lucky bastard,” a gaunt-faced soldier said, pointing to a rip near the hem of Bruno’s trench coat. “You almost took a shell splinter.”
Bruno ignored the comment and grabbed a canteen, which was hanging from the side of a bunk. “How far is the trench that will lead me to the front line?”
“Fifty meters,” a soldier said.
