The Paris Apartment, page 31
“What does that mean?”
“I think, Mademoiselle, that you are not telling me everything.” Schwarz’s eyes had narrowed. “I think you know more about this woman than you are telling me.”
The aide beside him suddenly laughed. “You can’t be serious,” he said to the sergeant. “This…this woman here has the intelligence of a post. I’ve known her for years. She brings baubles to the Reichsmarschall like a pretty little lapdog hoping for a pat on her head. Though I suspect she gets that from him too.”
“Even lapdogs bite,” Schwarz said. “Perhaps I should have her arrested to be sure.”
The ground tilted beneath Estelle’s feet, and the edges of her vision dimmed.
“Mademoiselle Allard!” The feminine voice came from the salon. “Where have you gone? I’ve found a toolbox.”
Estelle tried to get her lungs working again to clear the spots from around the edge of her vision.
Run, she wanted to scream. Run as far and as fast as you can.
Schwarz spun. The aide’s mouth snapped shut.
“Mademoiselle?” Sophie’s voice floated from beyond. “Are you still here?”
The two men crowded out of the bedroom, leaving Estelle behind. She forced her feet to move and followed them.
Sophie was crouched near the painting, the dusty little toolbox that had sat in the corner of the closet in one hand. She set the toolbox down against the wall beside the painting and straightened as the men approached, a blinding smile on her face. “Oh, it’s you again,” she exclaimed happily. “What a coincidence.”
The sergeant stopped, Hesse nearly crashing into him. Estelle edged toward the door.
“Tell me why you are here, Madame Beaufort,” Schwarz said coldly. “What have you been sent to do?”
“At the moment, we are trying to hang a painting,” she replied without missing a beat. “I don’t suppose you’ve run into Hauptgefreiter Müller? He’s gone to fetch a ladder. Perhaps you would be so kind as to assist when he returns.”
“How is your friend?” Schwarz asked, ignoring her query and advancing toward the agent.
“My friend?”
“The half-wit I met at the basilica.”
Sophie’s smile slipped. “He is not a half-wit—”
“No, I didn’t think he was. Finally, we get to a truth from you. Where is he now, Madame Beaufort? And what is your mission here?”
“—and he is much better, thank you,” Sophie continued on, ignoring his interruption. “I took him to the Tuileries Gardens. He enjoyed the peace.” She nudged the toolbox by her foot a little farther behind the painting before stepping away and wandering unhurriedly toward the door. Toward Estelle.
Estelle tried to catch her eye, to understand what was happening. To understand what the agent thought she was doing. But Sophie ignored her.
“Stop,” Schwarz commanded.
Sophie ignored him, too, and continued walking.
“You were told to stop,” Hesse barked.
“I don’t know who you are working for but you’ll not get far, Madame Beaufort,” the sergeant shouted. “I have more men on their way up here now.”
“I’ll stop her,” the aide said and pushed by the sergeant, launching himself at Sophie.
The agent unaccountably paused and allowed him to close his hands around her neck. He snarled in triumph, an expression of savage glee suffusing his narrow features.
Estelle never saw where the knife that punctured his neck came from, though the long, flowing sleeves of Madame Beaufort’s dress had likely not been an accident. The aide dropped bonelessly to the rug, his mouth opening and closing like a fish, his eyes rolling back in his head.
In another movement so swift that Estelle barely had time to register it, Sophie turned on her, wrapping an arm around her neck and yanking her hard backward. With Sophie’s height and startling strength, Estelle found herself held immobile, her fingers clawing at Sophie’s forearm. A prick of warm steel against her neck stilled those struggles.
“No,” Estelle gasped, none of the terror in her voice feigned. Because she understood now exactly what Sophie was doing. “Don’t do this.”
“I must,” Sophie said. She started pulling Estelle back toward the door of the suite.
Schwarz nudged the leg of the lifeless aide with his boot. “Fool,” he breathed. “But useful in the end, I suppose. For he has shown me exactly what you are, Madame.”
Estelle’s gaze darted frantically around the room, past the Gestapo officer who was now circling them with a feral intensity. “No,” she wheezed. “No, no, no.”
“You will not come any closer,” the agent said to Schwarz. “If you do, I’ll kill this one too.”
“Kill her, then,” he said. “She is of no consequence to me.”
“But she is of consequence to the Reichsmarschall. And you and I both know it, no matter how stupid she might be.”
The sergeant hesitated.
“For what it’s worth, the dead man was right,” Sophie told him with scorn. “She really does have the intelligence of a post.”
From outside the suite, the sound of boots on stairs rumbled.
Sophie jerked Estelle closer to her, turning away from Schwarz as if trying to listen to the sound coming from the suite’s entrance. “You know what you must do,” she whispered harshly in her ear.
Estelle squeezed her eyes shut, tears leaking from the corners. She nodded imperceptibly.
“Now scream,” Sophie hissed.
Estelle took a deep breath and did as the British agent instructed, a hysterical, frantic sound that went on and on. Sophie shoved her toward the sergeant and bolted through the door. Estelle fell to her hands and knees, her teeth clacking hard, her breath coming in gasps.
Schwarz bellowed and pursued the agent out of the suite, joining the chase.
Alone, Estelle half stumbled, half crawled across the empty salon toward the painting. She tugged frantically at the toolbox, pulling it out from behind the frame. Sophie’s pretty, beaded handbag rested exactly where Estelle had known it would be. She snatched it from behind the painting and tucked it under her arm.
As she did, the cover slid from the painting. Unsteadily, Estelle stood, her eyes fixed on Polyxena, still in her flowing cobalt tunic, her mother still desperately trying to reach her around the soldiers who held her firm. Except now, something had changed. Perhaps it was a trick of light or perhaps it was something else entirely, but Polyxena no longer looked resigned. Instead she looked resolute.
Estelle turned away from the painting and made her way back toward the suite’s door. She exited, pulling the door closed firmly behind her. There was no one about. Wherever Sophie had led her pursuers, they were gone. She wiped her face, straightened her shoulders, and, with Sophie’s handbag securely clutched in her hand, made her way back downstairs.
“Mademoiselle Allard.” A horrified-looking Müller met her at the bottom of the stairs. “There is a rumour that something has happened. Are you all right?”
“She tried to kill me,” Estelle whispered, letting a few more tears slide down her face.
“What?” Müller’s face went white. “Who?”
“Madame Beaufort,” Estelle sniveled. “The sergeant is pursuing her. I think…I think she came here to kill the Reichsmarschall. I…I think she used me. She called me stupid.”
Estelle swayed on her feet, and Müller leapt forward to steady her. “Are you all right?” he asked.
“I don’t know.” Estelle sniffed. “It all happened so fast. I’m not feeling well at all. I…I’d like to go home,” she said, turning her tearful gaze on the youth.
“Yes, yes, of course,” he said. “I will arrange it.”
“Thank you,” Estelle told him. “I don’t know what I would do without you.”
She allowed Müller to walk her through the hotel to the Cambon exit. They passed the bars and dining rooms and salons, the patrons focused on their meals and drinks and cigarettes and all oblivious to everything that was unfolding somewhere above their heads.
The young officer put her in a car and gave the driver instructions.
Estelle climbed the stairs to her apartment for the last time.
She opened the door and stalked through the empty flat, the bare space above the hearth a glaring reminder that she would not be coming back. She strode into her bedroom and set the little handbag on the coverlet. From beneath the bed, she pulled out a small travelling case, already packed. With care, she transferred the contents of Sophie’s handbag into the interior lining of the case, beneath the samples of lipstick and powder. She pulled off the lemon-yellow dress, tossing it on the end of the bed, and changed into clothes more suited for a travelling saleswoman.
She picked up the case, left the bedroom, and deposited it on the dining room table. She opened the tall cabinet and chose a pretty crystal tumbler, carrying it with her into the kitchen. There, she poured herself a healthy measure of brandy from the bottle she’d kept hidden under the sink. She raised her glass in a silent toast to the woman who had risked everything and made a silent promise to her that her risk would not be for nothing. She tipped the brandy down her throat, embracing the burn.
Estelle left the crystal tumbler in the kitchen by the sink, fetched the case from the table, and made her way to the door. She put her hand on the knob and turned to look behind her one last time. Her gaze collided with that of the nude woman who glared silently back.
In the end, once the Le Brun canvas had been removed and wrapped, Estelle had retrieved this painting from behind her dressing room wall to show to Sophie. The agent had said nothing as Estelle had propped it up against her writing desk, only stared at it with an impenetrable expression.
“What do you think?” Estelle had asked finally.
Sophie transferred her pale gaze to Estelle, and Estelle once again had the unnerving sensation that this woman was peering directly into her soul.
“It’s a painting of you,” Sophie said simply.
“It looks nothing like me.”
“Fearless defiance and unassailable courage. That is who you are.” Sophie put her hand lightly on Estelle’s arm. “And I am honoured to be fighting beside you.”
Estelle had covered the agent’s hand with her own, her throat tight. “And I you.”
Estelle should have restored the painting to its rightful place above the hearth but there had been no time. And it was too late now. The nude woman, with her midnight hair and outstretched hands, would stay as she was, greeting whoever might enter this apartment next with her unapologetic boldness. She would remain a keeper of the secrets and stories hidden within these walls for as long as necessary.
And she would remain a reminder to Estelle of the faith and trust that Sophie had placed in her.
Estelle turned from the painting and exited quickly, locking the door behind her. From across the hall, she heard the muffled wail of a baby followed by a raised voice and a clatter. Steps approached from within, but by the time Frau Hoffmann opened her apartment door, Estelle was already down the stairs.
She had a plane to catch, somewhere near Gasny.
Chapter
22
Sophie
Paris, France
8 September 1943
Sophie woke to blackness.
She thought her eyes were open but she could see nothing. Maybe she’d been blinded, she thought rather distantly. She tried to raise her hands to touch her face, but pain ripped through her and made her gasp. Her arms were broken, she was reasonably sure. As were both her legs. Her mind examined the pain there, as if she were poking herself from a distance, and decided that as long as she didn’t move, the dull throbbing in her lower legs was merely a steady count of her heartbeats.
A peculiar thought.
She licked her cracked, dry lips, thinking how lovely a sip of water might be. No, she amended, a glass of lemonade the way Piotr used to make it. Not enough sugar and too much lemon but delicious for its startling tartness all the same. She smiled at the memory before sharp bee stings stabbed at her lips where they were split.
She’d seen Piotr yesterday. Or maybe it was the day before. It was difficult to keep track of time now. He’d been standing by her feet, in his uniform, looking rather dismayed at whatever it was that the Gestapo were doing to her. Sophie had focused on him to distract herself from the pain that had become her constant companion. She’d tried to keep him in focus long enough to see his face but he’d wavered, and Sophie had closed her eyes. When she’d awoken again, the Gestapo were gone and so was Piotr.
She hoped he was telling her instructors that they ought to be impressed, she thought disjointedly. They would, undoubtably, call her unnatural again but this time it would be with approval. She hadn’t told the Nazi roaches anything other than what they thought they already knew. Lipsticks and powder and a chance to kill Göring when he returned. Miss Atkins would most definitely approve.
Sophie sighed. She would be sad, Miss Atkins would, when Sophie didn’t come back. And so would Will, though he would read her letter and understand. And Estelle would complete what Sophie couldn’t. Because, like Will, Estelle was a survivor.
A deafening bang reverberated, and an agonizing light flooded the room. Sophie groaned and squeezed her eyes shut but it didn’t seem to help the new pain that sparked deep in her head.
“Sophie.” Her name, called as if someone was yelling through a window.
“Sophie.” Again her name, and this time it was accompanied by a blow to the head. A faint buzzing started in her ears.
Sophie opened her eyes. They were back, the roaches in grey and black, hovering above her. Back with their instruments and hammers and tools and electrical devices that hummed, determined to extract the secrets caught inside her head.
They would never have them. They had to know this by now. This made her happy.
“Sophie.” A new voice from the corner of the room caught her attention. This was a voice she recognized.
“Piotr,” she murmured, relief washing through her like a warm bath. She wasn’t alone here anymore. This time he wasn’t in his uniform. He was wearing the heavy sweater he’d been wearing that last morning. She could see his face clearly, and this time, he didn’t look troubled. He looked the way he had when he had helped her to her feet the morning she’d crashed her bicycle.
“Did you make it count?” Piotr asked her.
“Yes,” Sophie whispered.
“What did she say?” someone barked loudly in German. She ignored them.
“I knew you would.” Her husband smiled at her. “Don’t be afraid. You’re almost home.”
Sophie tried to nod but the buzzing inside her head had turned into a sound similar to a stream dancing over a bed of stone. And like the stream, whatever pain she had felt seemed to be draining away just as quickly.
“Chain her back up.” Another loud, guttural command.
Sophie didn’t take her eyes off Piotr. He glanced beside him and smiled, and Sophie could now see that he wasn’t alone. A colt, the color of a new copper penny, was standing at his side. The foal shook its head and pranced, skittering away before coming to stand beside Piotr once again.
The sight filled Sophie’s heart with joy. Her husband put one hand on the colt’s withers and looked back at Sophie.
“Come home, Sophie,” he said and held out his hand.
And Sophie reached for it, grasping it tight.
Chapter
23
Estelle
Norfolk, England
14 September 1946
The English, like the French, often had the most literal names for their villages, Estelle reflected as she gazed north. Wells-next-the-Sea was exactly as advertised, perched stubbornly at the edge of a tidal flat that was even now giving way to the steady, creeping onslaught of the North Sea. The midmorning sun was warm on her skin, the breeze barely stirring. Here, the salty air was humid, thick with an underlying scent of earthy vegetation. Above her head, a bird shrieked and wheeled away toward the sea.
Perhaps it was the sight of the unending horizon, where the darker blue hues of the sea met the brighter, paler smudge of sky, that made her realize why she had come here. A thousand generations before her and a thousand generations after she was gone would stand in this same spot and look out at the same horizon. The line that stitched water to air would be found in the same place. It would never move. It would never leave or disappear. Not like the people who had once anchored Estelle’s life. Gone, all of them, vanished without a trace like smoke in a gale.
Including Sophie Beaufort.
But the place that Sophie had loved was not gone. It had survived against the cruelty of time and man and beckoned to Estelle for reasons she hadn’t been able to explain until she had stood looking at the horizon where sky met sea. She could find Millbrook. She could visit the place where Sophie had spent hours exploring the hills with her brother, shooting tin cans. Even if Sophie was gone forever, the home she had adored was not.
Estelle clutched her travel bag and turned away from the water, heading west. Millbrook was about two miles outside of town, a helpful gentleman at the train station had told her. All she had to do was follow the old mill road out of town, and it would take her directly to the estate. Just follow the people, he’d said, tipping the brim of his hat. For today was market day at Millbrook.
Estelle did as the kind stranger had suggested, joining clumps of people who were winding their way along the rutted track. Baskets were hung over arms or fastened to the rear of bicycles, and children darted from place to place, inevitably spilling into the tall grasses along the side of the road. An intrepid youth had set up a small table at about the halfway point between the town and the manor, selling ale by the cup.
If one did not wonder why there was no petrol for cars or why there seemed to be a disproportionate number of women and elderly folk in the migration of market-goers, one might convince oneself that the war had never existed. Here, the jagged holes torn into the fabric of everyday life were less noticeable than they were in the pockmarked, ragged cities like London. Yet in both places, time marched on, uncaring.
