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My stomach clenches as the black car we’re in approaches the Ritz Hotel in Paris. Johann and I arrived in the city yesterday for the ball that takes place this evening, and I have not been able to shake the feeling I’m being watched.
The driver stops the car in front of the main entrance and opens the door for Johann. Johann climbs out in his full-dress uniform that looks wrong on him. It is one he does not belong in, but the people here tonight have to believe he does.
I focus on the man I love and not on what the grey uniform stands for. He assists me from the back seat. The hem of my green silk gown swishes just above the ground. He offers me his arm, and we walk towards the entrance under the watchful eye of several soldiers.
I draw in a slow breath. You’ve been trained for this.
Perhaps not so much the part where I’ll be socialising with some of Paris’s elite in hopes of learning something that could benefit Baker Street. My SOE training did not prepare me for that, but I will get to draw on my experience of being the daughter of a former diplomat. I had attended a few soirees while my mother was alive.
At the same time, I need to remember in the Germans’ eyes I’m a simple French widow who spends her days helping her father in the vineyard.
We enter the ballroom, and Johann leads me to a couple I don’t recognise. Like Johann and several other men here, the officer is in full military dress uniform. His medals gleam in the light from the grand chandeliers above our heads.
The woman by his side is tall and slender, her blond hair pulled back in a chignon. She raises a delicate hand to touch the diamond pendant above the neckline of her haute couture dress.
They all salute each other to a round of “Heil Hitler.” I repeat the words, and a piece of me dies. But if I refuse to say them, my actions could bring to question Johann’s loyalty to the füehrer and cause me some undesired attention.
“Helene, this is Captain Schmidt,” the man who I believe to be General von der Osten says to the woman in crisp German. “Captain Schmidt, may I introduce you to my wife, Helene von Rundstedt.”
Johann gives her a curt nod. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Frau von Rundstedt,” he responds in German. “And this is Madame Angelique D’Aboville.” My introduction is made in French.
Helene smiles, the subtle curve of her lips polite and seemingly genuine. “Bonjour, it is nice to meet you, Angelique.” Her heavily German-accented French is practiced if not a little stilted. Her gaze sweeps down my simple gown of green silk and the black gloves that end a few inches below my elbow. “Your dress is lovely, dear.”
“Thank you. Yours is too.”
“Do you speak German?” she asks.
“I’m afraid not.”
Disappointment flickers on her face, and her expression settles once more into a polite smile. “That is too bad. My French is not very good.”
“Don’t worry yourself with this one,” her husband tells her in German. “There are plenty of women here with whom you would do well to get acquainted with.”
“You’re right,” she says on a put-off sigh. “Hopefully Herr Hitler bans French so they’re forced to speak German in this country.”
I’m certain the majority of France would have something to say about that.
I listen to a rather dull conversation between von der Osten and Johann on the topic of Parisian theatre, while I pretend I have no idea what they’re talking about. Helene listens with great interest, interjecting her own opinion now and then. I get the sense she’s an intelligent woman and possibly dangerous to both France and England. I suspect she has her husband’s ear when it comes to politics.
I smile pleasantly, as though I’m not wishing they would move onto a topic that will be of interest to Baker Street and the resistance networks throughout France.
Several other officers join our group. Johann introduces me to them in French. But even so, they choose to converse in German. A few of them attempt to talk to me in French but quickly grow bored of speaking in a language in which they are not fluent.
Major Müller joins the group. “I have received word the battalion will be transferred to the Eastern Front in a matter of months,” he proclaims at one point, chest puffed out like it’s an honour to be fighting the Russians. It is not a sentiment I have overheard being shared in the village among other German soldiers. They seemed nervous at the prospect—much like Johann’s best friend, Dieter, had been before he attempted to desert the Army.
Johann doesn’t seem particularly excited at the news. He doesn’t say anything, but his quiet reserve isn’t missed by me.
The conversation shifts to the Jews who have been rounded up in Paris and sent to various labor camps in France.
“I can’t believe those creatures were allowed to run around the country like rats,” Helene says. “Herr Hitler did the right thing getting rid of them.”
Johann stiffens next to me. His reaction is not enough to alert the group he does not agree with her anti-Semitic attitude, but it is enough for me to know he’s struggling not to say anything to contradict her. The rest of the group agrees with her, the zeal of their voices ranging from a hearty agreement to something more boisterous. That has Helene smiling, clearly satisfied by their responses.
After a few minutes of additional chatter about other groups she feels are beneath her, Helene and von der Osten excuse themselves to talk to another couple.
“Are you enjoying yourself, Madame D’Aboville?” Müller asks the question in French, but the curl of his mouth on his otherwise bland face warns me he plans to play with me like a cat with a canary.
“Very much so. Thank you, Major.”
