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“I don’t know what will happen. Hopefully the Germans don’t find out the truth.” Everyone in the village believes I am the daughter of an old friend of Jacques’s from the Great War.
“We can only pray the Germans don’t inquire about your relationship. And that neither of you gives anyone a reason to mention the truth to the Germans.” She gives me a sad smile full of warning of what could happen if someone should turn on Jacques and me. Too many questions will only put us in harm’s way. Too many questions will put the work I do here at risk.
And with that warning, Madame Bassett shuffles out of the bookshop with the help of her cane.
I hand Monsieur Joubert the Greek mythology book and my money.
He hands me the change with a smile that doesn’t sparkle as much as it used to. “Enjoy your book, Madame D’Aboville. And I hope to see you again soon.”
I thank him with an equal smile, Madame Bassett’s warning burning in my gut, and leave the shop. The courier is due there this afternoon and will find the coded message in the book. Allaire needs to be appraised of the situation for numerous reasons, the number one being that Captain Schmidt impedes my ability to do my job.
A temporary solution will need to be found, and I require Allaire and Baker Street to tell me how to proceed.
* * *
“I don’t knowhow the French survive on this vile food.” Arrogance slaps each of Major Müller’s words. The tall lean man has the beady eyes of a cruel rat caught in the cold rain.
He hasn’t bothered to speak a word of French since he came into the farmhouse. He has stuck with his native language, mocking me whenever he says something to me, almost as if to test me.
And I have stuck perfectly to my cover, glancing at Captain Schmidt every time the Major speaks. Pretending to wait for Schmidt to translate.
My real feelings towards the Major and the other officers aren’t betrayed on my face. And that includes when he referred to me as a simple-minded French whore.
“I must admit that I’m rather enjoying it.” Schmidt’s gravelly deep voice sends an unexpected shiver up my spine. A shiver I can’t explain. His voice is far more pleasant than the voices of the other individuals at the table. “I’m especially enjoying the wine.” He adds the last part as I finish filling his glass. He doesn’t acknowledge me, and I disappear into the background as far as they are all concerned.
“I prefer German wine, myself,” the Major says. Hearty words of agreement from the other officers stroke his accolade and his ego.
The barrel-chested officer with one thick eyebrow raises his glass at Schmidt. “The food is not so bad. I don’t suppose you will loan out your cook? Now I see why you decided to keep her and the old man around.”
That results in a round of laughter. Only Schmidt doesn’t seem amused, but none of the other officers appear to notice.
“I don’t mind the food,” a smaller officer responds, blond hair shaved tight to his head. “It’s being stuck in this pig hole I have problems with. The Wehrmacht in Paris get to enjoy all the finest entertainment France has to offer. The theatres. The clubs. The brothels.”
“Especially the brothels.” The thin-nosed officer with a rough scar next to his right eye lifts his glass in toast.
“You should have seen the whore I was with last week while on leave.” The barrel-chested officer precedes to tell the other men in detail about her and some of the things they did.
Many of the details are lost on me. The words and idioms weren’t part of my childhood education. Thank goodness, because if I had understood them, my red face would have given away my German skills.
Eventually, the topic changes to an upcoming local attack Germany has planned.
Discomfort flickers briefly on Schmidt’s face, and I wonder the reason for that. Surely the Captain cannot be squeamish. The other men are too intent on what the Major is saying to notice Schmidt’s reaction.
The more they discuss their plans, the sicker I feel, and the blood in my face drains. If anyone remembers I am here and looks my way, my reaction might betray the extent of my German.
Schmidt and Lieutenant Fischer are silent, seemingly absorbing the Major’s every word, but at the same time, appearing disquieted at what he says. I, meanwhile, absorb it all so I can relay the details to Allaire and Baker Street.
“French whore!” Major Müller snaps his fingers and waves me forward. “Bring us the port.”
I turn to Schmidt for his translation. He tells me what the Major requested but avoids the name calling. I serve them the port the driver dropped off earlier in the glasses he also dropped off with the food.
The evening continues with the Wehrmacht officers drinking more port. Early Allied intelligence suggested the German Army hadn’t supported Hitler’s rise to power. But the only truth to that here is the slight discomfort I sense emanating from Schmidt and Fischer. They do laugh at some of the tasteless jokes, but it seems somewhat forced. Neither man is drinking much.
The rest of the officers are happy with Hitler’s sweeping reforms. In Germany and the occupied countries. If Churchill cannot stop Hitler before it’s too late, England will also be added to that list. The country I love. My home.
The officers, with the exception of Schmidt and Fischer, eventually leave, driven back to whatever rat-infested sewer they scurried from.
I busy myself washing the dishes, but the relief I thought I would feel with them gone flounders. Schmidt’s and Fischer’s presence still leaves me ill at ease.
