Page 51 of The French Wife

It was furnished simply, in typical old-fashioned French country style, with dark-wood furniture and tapestry cushions. But what took her eye instantly was that one end of the room was set up as a studio. There was an easel with a sheet over it, paints and brushes on a table beside it next to a pile of sketch books, and what looked like several finished paintings in a neat pile next to the window.

‘Is that the picture of the bridge?’ she asked, pointing to the easel.

‘Yes. Let me take your coat, then I will show you.’

He eased her coat from her shoulders, then led her to the easel, where he took the sheet off the painting with a flourish. She stood back to admire it and was quickly drawn into the scene. It was as beautiful and accurate as the sketch she’d watched him do on the bench beside the river, perfectly conveying the movement of the water, the rustic character of the old bridge and the wild mountains behind it against the backdrop of a stormy sky. It was as captivating as the paintings of the Bavarian hills in his office.

‘It’s wonderful,’ she said, turning to him. ‘You are truly talented, Hauptmann Bauer.’

‘Oh, you’re flattering me. But I’m glad you like it. Please… call me Hans.’

‘Hans,’ she said, toying with the name. Then she looked up at him, smiling. ‘It suits you.’

‘And what is your first name, Madame Garnier?’ he asked. ‘Something beautiful, I’m sure.’

‘It’s Amélie,’ she said.

He smiled into her eyes then, the blue in his growing even more intense, the little lines at the corners of them crinkling. ‘I was right. It is a beautiful name. Now, can I offer you a drink? I have cognac or wine, and I can even make coffee or tea on this little stove here.’ He indicated to the far corner of the studio where there was a small kitchenette.

‘I won’t have coffee or tea,’ she said. ‘That would stop me sleeping. Perhaps a small glass of red wine? It’s a cold night.’

‘It is,’ he said, striding over to the kitchenette, uncorking a bottle of Corbières and pouring two glasses. ‘Please, do sit down.’

She sat on one of the armchairs and he sat beside her and handed her the glass. He’d taken off his jacket and was in his shirtsleeves and braces. Looking at him sitting there, his legs crossed, his blond hair flopping over his face, she could almost forget he was an enemy soldier and instead think of him as a man who’d shown her kindness and sympathy, friendship even. She took a sip of wine and relaxed a little.

‘You know I’ve been wanting to invite you here since we first arrived,’ he said. ‘At first, I was worried you wouldn’t come. Then, when we met by the river the other day and we talked, I realised I could trust you and confide in you. That we had much in common. Then I wasn’t afraid to ask you anymore. I’m glad I did and I’m glad you came,’ he said, leaning towards her.

Not knowing how to respond, she smiled at him again and felt the tension between them, like static electricity. The look in his eyes was so intense it felt as if it was burning into her. She couldn’t return it for long and she looked away, confused.

‘I’m glad I came too,’ she said, still looking down, and then she remembered who he was, what he was part of. She thought of the Lalouches and the terror in their eyes and she instinctively drew back from him.

‘Are you alright?’ he asked, concern in his voice. ‘You look a little pale.’ He reached out and touched her cheek, his hand lingering there and then, tracing the contours of her face, his fingers moved down to her chin.

She stiffened as his index finger touched the top of her collar. He mustn’t see the marks on her throat. She pulled away.

‘I… I… there is something bothering me, actually,’ she said, flustered.

‘Oh? I’m sorry. I didn’t mean…’ He took his hand away from her throat.

‘No, it wasn’t that,’ she said. ‘I heard today that you are preparing a register of all the Jews in St Marie and the surrounding area.’

‘Not me,’ he said, discomfort creeping into his eyes. ‘That’s Glock and the SS. That is their work, I’m sorry to say.’

‘But can’t you do anything to stop it? I mean, you work with him. Don’t you have a say in what happens?’

‘In some matters, of course, but I’m afraid not in the matter of monitoring the Jewish population. Here in France just as in Germany, it is firmly the province of the SS.’

She sighed in frustration. ‘But surely you don’t… agree with the Nazis’ anti-Jewish policies, do you?’

He shook his head sadly. ‘Of course not. I loathe and abhor them. It makes me ashamed to be German and to be associated with them in any way. In Germany I have Jewish friends. They are all forced to wear the yellow star now, they have lost their jobs or their businesses have been Aryanised. Some of them have even been interned.’

‘That’s terrible,’ she said.

‘Many Germans think that too, but the Nazis have a stranglehold on the country and, I’m sad to say, there are also many German citizens who support them.’

‘But not you?’

He shook his head. ‘That might sound strange, coming from a German officer, but I was conscripted into the army, I didn’t have a choice. I am an artist at heart, not a soldier, Amélie. Some of my fellow officers feel the same way. There is little we can do about it except for small acts of rebellion, trying our best to minimise the harm we do whenever we can, as I told you before.’