She patted Henri’s fingers where they gripped the old, rough metal. “I’ll be back.”
Henri frowned and reached through the bars to snag her hand before she could stride away. “What happened to your neck? It’s bleeding.Ciel,Zelie, your skirt is soaked through too! What did they do to you?”
She tossed him a grin and pulled her hand free. “They made the mistake of putting a small woman in a cell meant to hold in a full-grown man.”
Her friend examined her face for a moment, clearly looking for the lie. But he’d see none, because there was none. So he grinned back. “They always do underestimate you.”
“And praise God for it.” With a nod to thegendarmes, she hurried down the hallway, pausing at the end, where the perpendicular corridor intersected it.
From far enough away that she was confident no one would see her in the darkness, she peered through the windows in thecafeteria doors. The room beyond was brightly lit, about two dozen chairs set up and filled with men in Nazi uniforms.
Two dozen men for six prisoners? She hadn’t seen any others—but then, the Nazis had only just rolled into town. No doubt they were simply thefirstsix.
There, in the first row, she saw the officer’s uniform. The back of a head she’d seen only twice before. Von Eberstein. Even from here, she could see by his posture that he was entranced, focused fully upon something in front of him.
She had to shift a bit, come up on her toes.
Then she saw him. Marcel, at the piano in front of the chairs. Not an old, worn-out upright like she’d expected, but a baby grand, glossy and black. Where hadthatcome from? He wore only an undershirt, stained red, and his black trousers. Even from here, she could see the bruising on his jaw.
Bruised, battered, quite possibly broken, yet still he played like an angel. Played for her, not them.
Giving her the perfect opportunity to try to save them all.
Thirty-One
It was the two-edged sword of music, Marcel thought as he ignored the pain, the situation, the abbreviated future before him, and played. It cut both ways. The Nazis could use it against them, turn it into propaganda, lure them in with it.
But Marcel could use it to hold them enthralled too. He could hold his captors captive for twenty minutes, an hour, and buy his friends that much peace. He could use other men’s compositions to send a message to the woman he loved, praying she could hear it, wherever they had her.
Rachmaninoff’s Second Piano Concerto in C minor—you are more than you think.Ravel’s “Jeux d’eau”—you brought joy to my life.The Leonora-Luna duet fromIl Trovatore—there’s nothing you can’t do.
Song after song, his last love letter to her. And when Von Eberstein stood, signaling the end to the concert, Marcel tapped one final message. .--- . / - .----. .- .. -- .
Je t’aime.
A few of the soldiers clearly knew both Morse and French, given the snort of one, the quick bark from another to shut up.
Some of these men, at least, understood the aching of a heart saying its final goodbye.
He couldn’t regret the chase of his shooting star. Didn’t care if he was about to burn up in reality’s atmosphere. She’d been worth it.
Von Eberstein snapped out a command for everyone to get back to their duties, and Marcel sighed, lifted his hands from the keys, and stood.
The black cap was back on the man’s head, its skull and crossbones glowering at him. Marcel smiled. “It’s a beautiful instrument. What’s it doing here?”
Von Eberstein smoothed a hand down his jacket and rested the other on the glossy side of the piano. “Just because one is trapped in a barbaric little fortress doesn’t mean one can’t bring a bit of culture along.” His chin rose. “You could have lived a long life, Laurent. Entertained millions with your talent.”
His jaw ached. And his shoulders. And his ribs. But he smiled. “Better a short life lived with a clear conscience before God. I’ve made my difference. I leave the rest in his hands.”
Any warmth in Lothar’s eyes froze over again. “What difference? The Allies will not win this war, Marcel. Your Resistance—they’ll be crushed. All you’ve done is put people in danger. People I will hunt down and see executed until the last sparks of the rebellion are put out.”
Marcel leaned forward a bit on the bench, toward the man who’d never been his friend. “As long as the stars are shining in the heavens, Lothar, this Resistance will burn bright. With or without me. With or withoutanyone person.” He stood, noticing for the first time that Von Eberstein was no taller than he was, no broader. No more intimidating when it came to sheer physical presence.
It was only the uniform that lent him authority. That wretched black insignia.
But Marcel didn’t need such things. He had a more importantsign, sketched on his forehead every time he stood in the presence of God. Over his lips, over his heart.
Lothar’s mouth went tight.
