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I watch as Schmidt steps out of the house and crosses the gravel driveway. He heads for the barn.
My insides tighten and knot and pray. Pray he doesn’t go inside. That he’ll walk past it. Because what if he goes inside and finds the hiding space? With the bed and lamp there, it’s impossible to miss what the storage cellar was being used for.
He opens the side door and steps into the barn. I wait for him to leave, my hands gripping the windowsill. Venus, the vineyard’s other barn cat, black like a shadow, disappears around the corner, but there’s still no sign of Johann.
And I wait…and I wait…and I wait.
Is he searching the barn, looking for contraband? He won’t find the radio there. It’s hidden where he can’t find it in the house. But the hiding space in the barn will be incriminating enough.
After several more minutes and still no sign of him, I hurry downstairs, slip on my shoes, and leave the house.
My foot touches the dirt ground as Schmidt steps out of the barn. His expression appears neutral. It’s not the expression of a German officer who’s just found something the Nazis would frown upon. Or more specifically, would execute someone for.
Relief rushes from me in a soft breath, and I walk towards him. “I’m going to feed the horses,” I say as though I owe him an explanation for leaving the house.
“Is it all right if I come with you?”
“There is nothing stopping you from doing that.” My tone comes out more splenetic than expected, and I wince.
Be careful. He might not be an SS officer or Gestapo, but that doesn’t mean I can afford to be disrespectful.
Schmidt releases a long, frustrated sigh. “I know I’m not a welcome guest here, Angelique.”
“You’re not a guest.” This time my voice lacks the previous bite to it. The tone is soft, deferent. The opposite to how I feel. “Under German rule, as long as you’re staying here, this is your house.” And Jacques and I are the unpaid staff.
“My house is in Vienna. That is my home. This house”—he points at the brick building—“belongs to you and your father.”
I’m positive others of his rank would believe otherwise. And that makes me wonder why he is so different from the rest of them.
I go into the barn and bend to pick up some hay to load into the wheelbarrow.
Before I get that far, Schmidt scoops the hay up, puts it into the wheelbarrow, and grabs the handles. “Lead the way.”
We head to the small field where the two Breton horses live. Their light-brown sturdy bodies and their cream-coloured manes and tails are a soothing sight after my stressful day.
Esprit spots me and plods to the fence. She leans over and nuzzles my face.
“Hello, beautiful,” I say softly to her. I hug her sun-warmed neck and breathe in her scent. I would whisper to her about my day like I normally do, but with Schmidt standing behind me, that isn’t a good idea.
I release her and take a small step back.
“She’s beautiful.” Schmidt gently strokes the other side of her neck. She doesn’t jerk her head away. She just nickers.
And I stare at Schmidt as if he has transformed into woodland fairy folk.
“What?” he asks, sounding slightly perplexed.
“She usually doesn’t let strangers touch her.” It took me a while to gain her trust.
“I grew up around horses,” Schmidt says by way of an explanation.
“Are you responsible for the Army animals? Are you a veterinarian?”
He pats her neck. “I love animals, but I wasn’t interested in being a veterinarian. I’m a mechanical engineer.”
So, he’s intelligent. I inwardly let out a hard breath. His intelligence will make things more challenging and dangerous when it comes to me doing my job. “Your family has horses?”
“No, friends of my family have horses. Or they did before the war. I haven’t seen them in several years.”
