Blue Madonna, page 17
“Looks like we beat them to it,” I said. “Too bad we didn’t think to set up an ambush of our own.”
“It was too important to get the guns away,” Christine said. “If we lost men, they could not carry them.” Simple arithmetic. I began to see why she was Murat.
One truck emerged from the woods, followed by a second, beams seeping through the black tape covering their headlights. The first continued on to the village while the second braked in front of the house. The canvas flap was thrown back, and half a dozen men jumped out, rushing for the farmhouse door.
“Milice,” Christine hissed. Their blue tunics and large floppy berets marked them as members of the French fascist militia, the Milice française.
Rifle butts pounded on the front door as the miliciens swarmed the house, covering the back. Soon they were inside, and shouts and screams echoed in the night. Shots boomed from inside the house, flashes of muzzle fire illuminating the progress of the search, until a final blast lit an upstairs window for a split second, leaving darkness and silence within the riven home.
Christine gasped so loudly I was afraid the killers must have heard. I rested my hand on her shoulder, and she grasped it tightly. Moments passed, and then the silence was broken by the smashing of glass, the thuds of furniture being overturned, the desecration of a family’s patrimony. Laughter rippled through the house, the forced jocularity of those who needed to convince themselves that all was well, their actions right and just, even as they stepped in the blood of the slain.
Men stumbled out the front door. Bottles were handed around, brandy or calvados from the kitchen cupboards. Flames ate at the curtains lit in an attempt to further punish the dead before the miliciens climbed into their truck and motored off.
Without a word, Christine bolted to the farmhouse, her coat flapping as she ran. I followed, racing up the stone steps and through the open door. She was pulling at the curtains in the sitting room, stomping out the fire. I went through to the kitchen. The farmer was on his back, mouth open, his body wreathed in blood from two shots to the chest. On the stairs I found a boy, fifteen or so, the back of his head blown away. In the bedroom, a woman was huddled in the corner as if she’d run out of places to hide. She’d been shot in the neck, her hands still clutched around her throat in a futile attempt to staunch the blood as it pumped out of her dying body.
“There’s a girl as well,” Christine said. “She’d hidden in the closet.”
“Dead,” I said, not bothering to make it a question.
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“It is simple. Cyril is from this village. God only knows what they are on their way to do now. Come, we must see.”
“Wait, Christine,” I said as I followed her out of the charnel house. “What can we do? We have nothing but our pistols.”
“Nothing but bear witness. For now. Go back if you wish, but I must see.”
I looked back at the house. A sign was posted at the door, a requirement of the German occupiers. Names and ages of the residents within. Clara had been eighteen, Jérôme fourteen. There was nothing else I could do. I followed her, taking the road I’d traveled not so long ago with the Résistants of Coudray, joyfully celebrating their new weapons and white silk.
We left the road and circled around the village, finding a vantage point along the stone wall surrounding the churchyard cemetery. The two Milice trucks were parked in front of the church, the militiamen patrolling the main street with its whitewashed houses and dark slate roofs. The houses crowded the roadway, close enough for the men to tap the darkened windows with their rifles and taunt the inhabitants as they passed.
“What’s going on?” I asked. The leisurely approach was at odds with the attack on the farmhouse. The growl of approaching engines gave the answer. Reinforcements.
“Mon Dieu,” Christine whispered. From the other side of the village a column came into view, led by an open staff car. Headlamps were on full beam in defiance of the blackout. The harsh lights reflected off the stone church and the white walls of the houses and shops, creating an arena of garish whiteness, as frightening as it was unexpected. “Le SS.”
A German officer stood in the staff car, barking out orders in French and German. The Milice scattered to the perimeter, forming a cordon around the village. One of them was about twenty yards from us, but his gaze was fixed in the opposite direction, seeking those who might try to escape.
Troops in dappled camouflage smocks and hobnail boots descended from the trucks, smashed their way into houses, and dragged out the inhabitants. Shots rang out from behind the buildings, picking off those who tried to escape.
“They are from the Twelfth SS Panzer Division,” Christine said. “See the emblem on the trucks?” I did—a skeleton key set against the runic letter S. “Hitler Youth, the Hitlerjugend division. Fanatic Nazis.”
“They’re going to kill everyone,” I said, not able to believe what I was witnessing. Christine didn’t need to answer. I wanted to bury my head in my hands and pretend such things didn’t really happen. But I couldn’t, not with Christine locking her eyes on the scene in front of us, taking it all in.
As the women and children were dragged into the church, screams slashed the air. Mothers and wives reached for their men and boys, who stood with their hands held high in front of the houses where they had gone to sleep that night, counting the days until liberation. One mother broke free, running to her young son. Her arms and her nightdress enfolded him in a final gesture of protection. The SS troopers looked about the same age as the boy, but stared at the scene with indifference, their faces masks of darkness and reflected light.
The officer leapt from his vehicle and shouted at his men to hurry. “Macht schnell, macht schnell.” The woman and her son were hustled into the church, joining about thirty others who had been herded inside. As the heavy door was slammed shut, silence draped itself over the tableau, broken only by a truck parking in front of the church steps. The village men, a couple of dozen by my count, were pushed back against the walls of the buildings across the street.
The officer waved his arm, a languid, almost graceful motion.
Gunfire ripped the night. Submachine guns, rifles, pistols, all let loose into the gathered Frenchmen. Their bodies twitched, tumbled, and fell back against the white walls now spattered with crimson. It was over in seconds, and when the shooting stopped, cries of anguish rose up from within the church, even more terrible than the volley of fire that still seemed to echo off the stones.
The truck pulled away from the church, revealing two of the Hitlerjugend upending jerricans of gas at the wooden door. Other troopers surrounded the church as the officer stepped through the pile of corpses, delivering pistol shots to any that moved. There was no further need for orders; everything was going according to plan. The gas cans had been hidden from view, so the men wouldn’t guess what was planned for their women and children. They’d awaited their fate quietly, accepting it as best they could.
Whump.
An orange explosion ignited at the church door, sending a cloud of black smoke swirling into the night sky. Flames licked at the stout wooden door and lit the inside of the church as the fuel that had flowed under the door torched the interior. SS troopers shot out the stained glass windows and tossed grenades through the narrow shattered openings, the explosions drowning out the pleas for mercy and the terrified screams of the burned and dying.
Hands clawed at the windows, only to be beaten back by shots and more grenades. A woman threw a small child out one window. She screamed at the nearest soldier, cursing him while flames licked at her back. Two troopers shot at her, and she vanished into the inferno. The small form lay still and smoking between the two SS men, who kept firing at the windows until the interior was fully engulfed, the centuries-old wooden pews burning like kindling in a stove.
Christine wept, tears dropping like raindrops. She’d bitten her lip to keep from crying out—or in despair, perhaps—and a trickle of blood ran down her chin.
We crouched behind the wall, unable to move or think about what to do next. Running away seemed cowardly, remaining foolish. We knew what had happened, we knew who’d done it. We’d borne witness. And it all seemed so useless. I gripped my pistol, aching to take vengeance, knowing that I’d be nothing but another corpse in seconds.
I laid my hand on Christine’s shoulder. She shook it off.
The Milice came in from the perimeter, their job done. No more laughing, no bottles in sight.
The SS mounted their trucks and halftracks quickly and efficiently. Dispassionately. Like the job they’d come to do. The column roared out of town, scattering the miliciens who milled about near their trucks as if they were playing boules in a village square.
By unspoken accord, we slumped down, resting against the cold stone wall, waiting for the complicit French to leave the murdered French. The fire sparked and crackled behind us, casting an orange glow against the leafy branches above us. I was empty, my mind numb but my body craving revenge, action, the feel of a man’s throat in my grip.
The Milice trucks finally drove away, leaving the village to the dead.
“Let’s go,” I said, my voice still a whisper. I helped Christine to stand, and turned to look one last time at the fiery church.
A ghost walked toward us. A child, wisps of smoke curling from her clothes. The girl who was thrown from the window.
“Mon enfant!” Christine cried, and vaulted over the wall. She ran to the child, who burst into tears. I tore at her garments, certain she must have been badly burned.
She wasn’t. The thick woman’s coat she wore had taken the brunt of the flames. She gripped Christine and wailed, sobbing and choking on her words. We scurried out of the graveyard, away from the church, hurrying down the road and away from Coudray, the village and the memory of it.
We carried the child for miles, but the memory only burned deeper into my brain with each step.
Chapter Twenty
Her mother had told her to lie still when she hit the ground. And that she’d be right behind her. Instead, she’d distracted the soldiers with her curses, taking bullets as her child lay unnoticed on the ground.
Her name was Emeline. She was five years old.
She wanted her maman.
I slept in a toolshed outside the hospital. Christine brought Emeline in with her and spun a story about finding her lost in the woods. The nurses accepted it, but by morning, a jittery doctor began to ask questions about where Emeline had come from. The story of the massacre had spread, whether by other survivors, bragging Hitlerjugend, or drunken Milice, it was impossible to say. But my money was on the militia. A guy with a guilty conscience couldn’t stop flapping his gums to justify himself. Either way, we had to get her out before the doctor lost his nerve and reported her.
So that was how Emeline came to return with us to the château. I was hidden behind the backseat again. Emeline was wrapped in a blanket in the back, and I listened to her snuffling tears as we drove slowly through the forest.
I unfolded myself from the backseat as Juliet was holding Emeline, who seemed half asleep or too afraid to let anyone know she was awake. “Who is this?” Juliet whispered.
“Have you heard about Coudray?” I asked.
“Yes. I thought as much. What are we going to do with her?” Juliet said.
“I must leave,” Christine said. “I am already late for the library, and I don’t wish for any questions. Care for her, please. I am sure Count Vasseur will take her in.”
“But what if the count doesn’t agree?” Juliet asked.
“He must. He has many hiding places, doesn’t he?” Christine leaned in to whisper to Emeline, stroking her hair and murmuring gently in French. I couldn’t make out a word, but I got the gist. Be a good girl, be brave. I’ll be back soon. Emeline nodded, her face burrowed against Juliet’s breast.
“Did you see Murat?” Juliet asked.
“Yes, Murat was there, and the weapons were delivered,” I said, not wanting to lie to Juliet or reveal the secret of Murat. “After we left the Maquis, we witnessed the SS attack on the village, with the assistance of the Milice.”
“We must find the Germans who did this,” Christine said, adding wood to her firebox. “They were with the Twelfth SS Panzer Division. I want the officer who ordered this massacre, and as many of his men as we can kill.”
“What about the Milice?” I asked.
“We know exactly where they are. They set up their headquarters in Dreux at the synagogue on rue Vernouillet, since the Jews had no further need of it, according to Pierre Rivet, their leader. He shall not be making bad jokes much longer. Au revoir.”
With that declaration, Christine drove off for another day at the library.
“We’ll talk to the count, Billy. He’ll want a firsthand report,” Juliet said as she carried Emeline down the basement steps.
“What about the radio? Please tell me it’s fixed.”
“Yes, finally, late last night. I was in the midst of coding a message when you arrived.”
“Good news,” I said. But the news I really wanted to hear was that Count Vasseur would willingly take in little Emeline and hide her from those who wished to leave no witness to their crimes.
It suddenly occurred to me that Christine and I were witnesses, too, and that the Milice in particular would want to eliminate anyone who could testify as to their complicity. Unless the Germans threw the invasion back into the Channel, sooner or later they’d be retreating to the Reich, tails between their legs. But the homegrown French fascists would have nowhere to go. There’d be hell to pay for their collaboration, and wholesale murder meant the hangman for sure. Unless they blamed it all on the Hitlerjugend, and there was no one alive to claim otherwise.
We surfaced in a pantry off the kitchen, the narrow door disguised behind shelves of canned goods. Her eyes squeezed shut, Emeline whimpered in Juliet’s arms. Madame Agard greeted us, her apron dusty with flour, and her eyes wide at the sight of the child. She swooped up the girl and sat her at the wooden table, in the chair closest to the warm stove. In seconds, a bowl of milk appeared along with a hunk of crusty bread. Madame Agard took Emeline’s small hands in hers and wiped away soot and dirt with a wet cloth. She cleaned Emeline’s face, pressing the cloth to her eyes. Emeline rewarded her with the slightest of smiles as she scrubbed.
“Maman?” Emeline whispered, finally opening her eyes. Madame Agard spoke softly, telling her lies as she dipped the stale bread into the milk and fed her pieces, coaxing her to eat. I fell into a chair myself, fatigue overtaking me. I wanted nothing more than to lay my head on my arm and fall asleep in this warm kitchen and forget what I’d seen.
“It’s not exactly coffee, but it’s warm,” Juliet said, handing me a cup of something steaming and dark brown. Or maybe yellow, it was hard to tell. “Toasted barley mixed with chicory. I’ve gotten used to it, God help me.”
Madame Agard moved to the counter to cut a slice of bread for me, and Emeline reacted with a quivering lip and arms outstretched. Juliet took over with my bread, and the cook went back to Emeline, whispering kindnesses as she fed her.
“Dunk it in your drink,” Juliet said. “It’s quite stale. Bread rations are pitiful, and flour hard to come by. Madame Agard experiments with potato, rice, and maize, whatever she can use to substitute.”
It helped to soak it in the coffee, which was how I preferred to think of this concoction. The grey bread was improved, if only in color and texture. Whatever the ingredients, the food and drink helped wake me up. As we got up to find the count, Juliet gave Emeline a hug, crumbs of milk-soaked bread sticking to her shoulder. Then Emeline put out her arms in my direction, the smell of smoke still clinging to her hair, and I hugged her.
From the moment it had happened, I’d wanted to get back at the men who had committed this atrocity, but now I wanted it in the deepest, darkest part of my heart. Poor Emeline would smell that smoky scent for the rest of her life, always at the edge of memory, the sight of flames and fire more terrifying than they had any right to be as the years passed. I couldn’t do much about that, but revenge, that was within my grasp.
I followed Juliet, intent on more short-term needs. Get the count to care for Emeline, then send a radio message out, and finally get Switch Blake alone to show him the picture and convince him Cousin Donald was safe and sound.
We walked along a wide corridor, the faded wallpaper peeling off the walls, the ceiling cracked and water-damaged. Empty rooms on either side, except for a toppled chair or a three-legged table on its back.
“This wing is not used,” Juliet said. “It’s safer to go this way. There are hidden entrances to the tunnels in these rooms; we can leave and return without any of the staff taking notice.” “They don’t know what’s going on here?”
“None other than Vincent and Madame Agard know exactly what we do. I’m sure some have their suspicions, but it is best if they’re not aware. They are all loyal to the count, loyal enough to look the other way when necessary.”
At the end of the corridor we came to the foyer at the main entrance. Here it was gleaming marble and polished brass, a sharp contrast to the decay we’d walked through. Juliet beckoned me along and led me through the foyer and into a grand hall with a giant fireplace I could have stood in.
Portraits were hung along one wall, the nearest looking like a younger version of Count Vasseur. As we walked, the clothes became more old-fashioned, until we were back in the time of Napoleon, the men in high-necked military uniforms, the women in gauzy dresses and high hairdos. The frames were thick with dust, the carpet on the floor threadbare. The windows were grimy, letting in barely enough light to see by. Two doors on the opposite wall were ajar, and I stopped to listen for footsteps.
“It was too important to get the guns away,” Christine said. “If we lost men, they could not carry them.” Simple arithmetic. I began to see why she was Murat.
One truck emerged from the woods, followed by a second, beams seeping through the black tape covering their headlights. The first continued on to the village while the second braked in front of the house. The canvas flap was thrown back, and half a dozen men jumped out, rushing for the farmhouse door.
“Milice,” Christine hissed. Their blue tunics and large floppy berets marked them as members of the French fascist militia, the Milice française.
Rifle butts pounded on the front door as the miliciens swarmed the house, covering the back. Soon they were inside, and shouts and screams echoed in the night. Shots boomed from inside the house, flashes of muzzle fire illuminating the progress of the search, until a final blast lit an upstairs window for a split second, leaving darkness and silence within the riven home.
Christine gasped so loudly I was afraid the killers must have heard. I rested my hand on her shoulder, and she grasped it tightly. Moments passed, and then the silence was broken by the smashing of glass, the thuds of furniture being overturned, the desecration of a family’s patrimony. Laughter rippled through the house, the forced jocularity of those who needed to convince themselves that all was well, their actions right and just, even as they stepped in the blood of the slain.
Men stumbled out the front door. Bottles were handed around, brandy or calvados from the kitchen cupboards. Flames ate at the curtains lit in an attempt to further punish the dead before the miliciens climbed into their truck and motored off.
Without a word, Christine bolted to the farmhouse, her coat flapping as she ran. I followed, racing up the stone steps and through the open door. She was pulling at the curtains in the sitting room, stomping out the fire. I went through to the kitchen. The farmer was on his back, mouth open, his body wreathed in blood from two shots to the chest. On the stairs I found a boy, fifteen or so, the back of his head blown away. In the bedroom, a woman was huddled in the corner as if she’d run out of places to hide. She’d been shot in the neck, her hands still clutched around her throat in a futile attempt to staunch the blood as it pumped out of her dying body.
“There’s a girl as well,” Christine said. “She’d hidden in the closet.”
“Dead,” I said, not bothering to make it a question.
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“It is simple. Cyril is from this village. God only knows what they are on their way to do now. Come, we must see.”
“Wait, Christine,” I said as I followed her out of the charnel house. “What can we do? We have nothing but our pistols.”
“Nothing but bear witness. For now. Go back if you wish, but I must see.”
I looked back at the house. A sign was posted at the door, a requirement of the German occupiers. Names and ages of the residents within. Clara had been eighteen, Jérôme fourteen. There was nothing else I could do. I followed her, taking the road I’d traveled not so long ago with the Résistants of Coudray, joyfully celebrating their new weapons and white silk.
We left the road and circled around the village, finding a vantage point along the stone wall surrounding the churchyard cemetery. The two Milice trucks were parked in front of the church, the militiamen patrolling the main street with its whitewashed houses and dark slate roofs. The houses crowded the roadway, close enough for the men to tap the darkened windows with their rifles and taunt the inhabitants as they passed.
“What’s going on?” I asked. The leisurely approach was at odds with the attack on the farmhouse. The growl of approaching engines gave the answer. Reinforcements.
“Mon Dieu,” Christine whispered. From the other side of the village a column came into view, led by an open staff car. Headlamps were on full beam in defiance of the blackout. The harsh lights reflected off the stone church and the white walls of the houses and shops, creating an arena of garish whiteness, as frightening as it was unexpected. “Le SS.”
A German officer stood in the staff car, barking out orders in French and German. The Milice scattered to the perimeter, forming a cordon around the village. One of them was about twenty yards from us, but his gaze was fixed in the opposite direction, seeking those who might try to escape.
Troops in dappled camouflage smocks and hobnail boots descended from the trucks, smashed their way into houses, and dragged out the inhabitants. Shots rang out from behind the buildings, picking off those who tried to escape.
“They are from the Twelfth SS Panzer Division,” Christine said. “See the emblem on the trucks?” I did—a skeleton key set against the runic letter S. “Hitler Youth, the Hitlerjugend division. Fanatic Nazis.”
“They’re going to kill everyone,” I said, not able to believe what I was witnessing. Christine didn’t need to answer. I wanted to bury my head in my hands and pretend such things didn’t really happen. But I couldn’t, not with Christine locking her eyes on the scene in front of us, taking it all in.
As the women and children were dragged into the church, screams slashed the air. Mothers and wives reached for their men and boys, who stood with their hands held high in front of the houses where they had gone to sleep that night, counting the days until liberation. One mother broke free, running to her young son. Her arms and her nightdress enfolded him in a final gesture of protection. The SS troopers looked about the same age as the boy, but stared at the scene with indifference, their faces masks of darkness and reflected light.
The officer leapt from his vehicle and shouted at his men to hurry. “Macht schnell, macht schnell.” The woman and her son were hustled into the church, joining about thirty others who had been herded inside. As the heavy door was slammed shut, silence draped itself over the tableau, broken only by a truck parking in front of the church steps. The village men, a couple of dozen by my count, were pushed back against the walls of the buildings across the street.
The officer waved his arm, a languid, almost graceful motion.
Gunfire ripped the night. Submachine guns, rifles, pistols, all let loose into the gathered Frenchmen. Their bodies twitched, tumbled, and fell back against the white walls now spattered with crimson. It was over in seconds, and when the shooting stopped, cries of anguish rose up from within the church, even more terrible than the volley of fire that still seemed to echo off the stones.
The truck pulled away from the church, revealing two of the Hitlerjugend upending jerricans of gas at the wooden door. Other troopers surrounded the church as the officer stepped through the pile of corpses, delivering pistol shots to any that moved. There was no further need for orders; everything was going according to plan. The gas cans had been hidden from view, so the men wouldn’t guess what was planned for their women and children. They’d awaited their fate quietly, accepting it as best they could.
Whump.
An orange explosion ignited at the church door, sending a cloud of black smoke swirling into the night sky. Flames licked at the stout wooden door and lit the inside of the church as the fuel that had flowed under the door torched the interior. SS troopers shot out the stained glass windows and tossed grenades through the narrow shattered openings, the explosions drowning out the pleas for mercy and the terrified screams of the burned and dying.
Hands clawed at the windows, only to be beaten back by shots and more grenades. A woman threw a small child out one window. She screamed at the nearest soldier, cursing him while flames licked at her back. Two troopers shot at her, and she vanished into the inferno. The small form lay still and smoking between the two SS men, who kept firing at the windows until the interior was fully engulfed, the centuries-old wooden pews burning like kindling in a stove.
Christine wept, tears dropping like raindrops. She’d bitten her lip to keep from crying out—or in despair, perhaps—and a trickle of blood ran down her chin.
We crouched behind the wall, unable to move or think about what to do next. Running away seemed cowardly, remaining foolish. We knew what had happened, we knew who’d done it. We’d borne witness. And it all seemed so useless. I gripped my pistol, aching to take vengeance, knowing that I’d be nothing but another corpse in seconds.
I laid my hand on Christine’s shoulder. She shook it off.
The Milice came in from the perimeter, their job done. No more laughing, no bottles in sight.
The SS mounted their trucks and halftracks quickly and efficiently. Dispassionately. Like the job they’d come to do. The column roared out of town, scattering the miliciens who milled about near their trucks as if they were playing boules in a village square.
By unspoken accord, we slumped down, resting against the cold stone wall, waiting for the complicit French to leave the murdered French. The fire sparked and crackled behind us, casting an orange glow against the leafy branches above us. I was empty, my mind numb but my body craving revenge, action, the feel of a man’s throat in my grip.
The Milice trucks finally drove away, leaving the village to the dead.
“Let’s go,” I said, my voice still a whisper. I helped Christine to stand, and turned to look one last time at the fiery church.
A ghost walked toward us. A child, wisps of smoke curling from her clothes. The girl who was thrown from the window.
“Mon enfant!” Christine cried, and vaulted over the wall. She ran to the child, who burst into tears. I tore at her garments, certain she must have been badly burned.
She wasn’t. The thick woman’s coat she wore had taken the brunt of the flames. She gripped Christine and wailed, sobbing and choking on her words. We scurried out of the graveyard, away from the church, hurrying down the road and away from Coudray, the village and the memory of it.
We carried the child for miles, but the memory only burned deeper into my brain with each step.
Chapter Twenty
Her mother had told her to lie still when she hit the ground. And that she’d be right behind her. Instead, she’d distracted the soldiers with her curses, taking bullets as her child lay unnoticed on the ground.
Her name was Emeline. She was five years old.
She wanted her maman.
I slept in a toolshed outside the hospital. Christine brought Emeline in with her and spun a story about finding her lost in the woods. The nurses accepted it, but by morning, a jittery doctor began to ask questions about where Emeline had come from. The story of the massacre had spread, whether by other survivors, bragging Hitlerjugend, or drunken Milice, it was impossible to say. But my money was on the militia. A guy with a guilty conscience couldn’t stop flapping his gums to justify himself. Either way, we had to get her out before the doctor lost his nerve and reported her.
So that was how Emeline came to return with us to the château. I was hidden behind the backseat again. Emeline was wrapped in a blanket in the back, and I listened to her snuffling tears as we drove slowly through the forest.
I unfolded myself from the backseat as Juliet was holding Emeline, who seemed half asleep or too afraid to let anyone know she was awake. “Who is this?” Juliet whispered.
“Have you heard about Coudray?” I asked.
“Yes. I thought as much. What are we going to do with her?” Juliet said.
“I must leave,” Christine said. “I am already late for the library, and I don’t wish for any questions. Care for her, please. I am sure Count Vasseur will take her in.”
“But what if the count doesn’t agree?” Juliet asked.
“He must. He has many hiding places, doesn’t he?” Christine leaned in to whisper to Emeline, stroking her hair and murmuring gently in French. I couldn’t make out a word, but I got the gist. Be a good girl, be brave. I’ll be back soon. Emeline nodded, her face burrowed against Juliet’s breast.
“Did you see Murat?” Juliet asked.
“Yes, Murat was there, and the weapons were delivered,” I said, not wanting to lie to Juliet or reveal the secret of Murat. “After we left the Maquis, we witnessed the SS attack on the village, with the assistance of the Milice.”
“We must find the Germans who did this,” Christine said, adding wood to her firebox. “They were with the Twelfth SS Panzer Division. I want the officer who ordered this massacre, and as many of his men as we can kill.”
“What about the Milice?” I asked.
“We know exactly where they are. They set up their headquarters in Dreux at the synagogue on rue Vernouillet, since the Jews had no further need of it, according to Pierre Rivet, their leader. He shall not be making bad jokes much longer. Au revoir.”
With that declaration, Christine drove off for another day at the library.
“We’ll talk to the count, Billy. He’ll want a firsthand report,” Juliet said as she carried Emeline down the basement steps.
“What about the radio? Please tell me it’s fixed.”
“Yes, finally, late last night. I was in the midst of coding a message when you arrived.”
“Good news,” I said. But the news I really wanted to hear was that Count Vasseur would willingly take in little Emeline and hide her from those who wished to leave no witness to their crimes.
It suddenly occurred to me that Christine and I were witnesses, too, and that the Milice in particular would want to eliminate anyone who could testify as to their complicity. Unless the Germans threw the invasion back into the Channel, sooner or later they’d be retreating to the Reich, tails between their legs. But the homegrown French fascists would have nowhere to go. There’d be hell to pay for their collaboration, and wholesale murder meant the hangman for sure. Unless they blamed it all on the Hitlerjugend, and there was no one alive to claim otherwise.
We surfaced in a pantry off the kitchen, the narrow door disguised behind shelves of canned goods. Her eyes squeezed shut, Emeline whimpered in Juliet’s arms. Madame Agard greeted us, her apron dusty with flour, and her eyes wide at the sight of the child. She swooped up the girl and sat her at the wooden table, in the chair closest to the warm stove. In seconds, a bowl of milk appeared along with a hunk of crusty bread. Madame Agard took Emeline’s small hands in hers and wiped away soot and dirt with a wet cloth. She cleaned Emeline’s face, pressing the cloth to her eyes. Emeline rewarded her with the slightest of smiles as she scrubbed.
“Maman?” Emeline whispered, finally opening her eyes. Madame Agard spoke softly, telling her lies as she dipped the stale bread into the milk and fed her pieces, coaxing her to eat. I fell into a chair myself, fatigue overtaking me. I wanted nothing more than to lay my head on my arm and fall asleep in this warm kitchen and forget what I’d seen.
“It’s not exactly coffee, but it’s warm,” Juliet said, handing me a cup of something steaming and dark brown. Or maybe yellow, it was hard to tell. “Toasted barley mixed with chicory. I’ve gotten used to it, God help me.”
Madame Agard moved to the counter to cut a slice of bread for me, and Emeline reacted with a quivering lip and arms outstretched. Juliet took over with my bread, and the cook went back to Emeline, whispering kindnesses as she fed her.
“Dunk it in your drink,” Juliet said. “It’s quite stale. Bread rations are pitiful, and flour hard to come by. Madame Agard experiments with potato, rice, and maize, whatever she can use to substitute.”
It helped to soak it in the coffee, which was how I preferred to think of this concoction. The grey bread was improved, if only in color and texture. Whatever the ingredients, the food and drink helped wake me up. As we got up to find the count, Juliet gave Emeline a hug, crumbs of milk-soaked bread sticking to her shoulder. Then Emeline put out her arms in my direction, the smell of smoke still clinging to her hair, and I hugged her.
From the moment it had happened, I’d wanted to get back at the men who had committed this atrocity, but now I wanted it in the deepest, darkest part of my heart. Poor Emeline would smell that smoky scent for the rest of her life, always at the edge of memory, the sight of flames and fire more terrifying than they had any right to be as the years passed. I couldn’t do much about that, but revenge, that was within my grasp.
I followed Juliet, intent on more short-term needs. Get the count to care for Emeline, then send a radio message out, and finally get Switch Blake alone to show him the picture and convince him Cousin Donald was safe and sound.
We walked along a wide corridor, the faded wallpaper peeling off the walls, the ceiling cracked and water-damaged. Empty rooms on either side, except for a toppled chair or a three-legged table on its back.
“This wing is not used,” Juliet said. “It’s safer to go this way. There are hidden entrances to the tunnels in these rooms; we can leave and return without any of the staff taking notice.” “They don’t know what’s going on here?”
“None other than Vincent and Madame Agard know exactly what we do. I’m sure some have their suspicions, but it is best if they’re not aware. They are all loyal to the count, loyal enough to look the other way when necessary.”
At the end of the corridor we came to the foyer at the main entrance. Here it was gleaming marble and polished brass, a sharp contrast to the decay we’d walked through. Juliet beckoned me along and led me through the foyer and into a grand hall with a giant fireplace I could have stood in.
Portraits were hung along one wall, the nearest looking like a younger version of Count Vasseur. As we walked, the clothes became more old-fashioned, until we were back in the time of Napoleon, the men in high-necked military uniforms, the women in gauzy dresses and high hairdos. The frames were thick with dust, the carpet on the floor threadbare. The windows were grimy, letting in barely enough light to see by. Two doors on the opposite wall were ajar, and I stopped to listen for footsteps.
