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May 1943
France
Jacques readsthe document Captain Schmidt handed him that states Schmidt will now be residing in the farmhouse. The paper trembles in Jacques’s hand. “It says all current occupants are required to vacate the premise.”
So, the captain misspoke when he said he would be billeting with us. He meant he would be confiscating Jacques’s home for his own use.
And now Jacques will be homeless. Scalding heat pulses through my veins, but there is nothing I can do. The captain is the occupier. We’re just the pests he’s been given the rights to get rid of.
The shorter soldier’s brow crunches into a frown, and he glances at Schmidt. Schmidt translates in German more or less what Jacques stated.
“There is no need for you to leave,” Schmidt tells Jacques in French. “But if you are unable to reside in the same household as me, yes, you will be required to vacate the premise.”
Jacques’s gaze returns to the shorter soldier. “You are staying here, too,non?”
“No, it will only be me,” Schmidt replies, answering for the other soldier. “First Lieutenant Fischer will reside in the village while our regiment is stationed in the area.”
Dread and contempt roil in my stomach at what Schmidt’s presence means. I need to find another safe house in the region so I can keep doing my job, but what will happen to Jacques? I’m here under the pretext that I’m helping my papa after losing my husband. How will it look if I leave?
“I take it she isn’t too impressed with you staying here,” Fischer says in German. Amusement curls his lips. It’s not a sardonic smile. It’s the smile schoolboys give their best mates.
And that accent.
I know that accent.
Lieutenant Fischer isn’t German born. He’s from Austria, or he spent a good portion of his childhood there, making the accent more permanent. And since the men’s accents are identical, Schmidt is from the same place.
“Can you blame her for not being too impressed?” Schmidt responds. “Do you think Anja would be thrilled to have the enemy living under her roof?” He presses his lips into a fine line as if the thought of that angers him.
“I assume you wouldn’t want the enemy living with her either. But these two do not have a choice. Not unless you’ve changed your mind about residing here.”
“No, that hasn’t changed.” Schmidt’s reply is abrupt. His tone is no longer angry. It’s determined.
Frowning, Jacques watches the two men. He doesn’t understand what they’re saying, nor does he realise they are from Austria. But it doesn’t matter if they were born in Germany or Austria or East Prussia; they are still Wehrmacht soldiers.
They are still the enemy.
The enemy who will make my job more difficult.
And Jacques and I can no longer listen to the BBC French news. The news about what is really going on in the world. The news Hitler doesn’t want people to hear. The news that relays coded messages from London to those of us fighting underground in France.
It’s illegal to own a radio in France, never mind listen to it.
“I’ll show Captain Schmidt to his room,” I tell them, slipping easily into French. I can only hope the man won’t demand to exchange rooms with me, especially given what I have hidden under my floorboard.
If those items are found, it will result in my execution or have me sent to prison.
Fischer says a few words of farewell, then climbs into the Jeep. The driver starts the engine, and they depart, leaving Schmidt, a duffel bag, and a cloud of dust behind.
I move closer to Schmidt with the caution of someone approaching a rabid dog. “I can show you to your room now if you wish, Captain Schmidt.”
Jacques turns around and heads for the vineyards without a single word spared for Schmidt or me. My heart goes out to him and the latest injustice he has to endure.
“Thank you, Madame D’Aboville. You may call me Johann.”
The offer for me to use his familiar name startles me, and my eyebrows draw together ever so slightly. It would make more sense for him to enforce that I use his military rank and surname. A reminder we aren’t on the same level. That he is, in the Germans’ eyes, superior to me. Suggesting I use his familiar name removes some of the inequality between us.
His request makes me trust him even less. But the lack of trust goes both ways, and perhaps I can use this situation to my advantage. “You may call me Angelique.”
