B004U2USMY EBOK (5 page)

“Come, sit down,” Ostermann urged Gabriela.
He took her arm and returned her to her seat. “Here, eat
something, drink something. I can tell you’re hungry. Leblanc is
in the kitchen, he is preoccupied.” He dished some of his venison
onto her plate. “The colonel is gone. I took care of him, I told
him you had nothing to do with this. You can relax.”

She couldn’t help herself. She was so hungry
that she forgot everything for a moment as she ate the food
offered. The venison was good, god was it good. And the gravy. Had
she ever tasted anything so rich?

Ostermann smiled. “You see, I can be
generous.”

“But Roger. . .my boyfriend.”

“Oh, please, he’s not your boyfriend. He is a
faggot. The colonel was right about that much. I don’t know why
you were protecting him. Loyalty for Leblanc perhaps. Never mind,
it is over now. Nothing more to be done.”

“He may be a homosexual,” Helmut spoke up,
“but it’s not hopeless, not yet. Neither the boy nor his father
helped matters any with that outburst, but something might still
be done.”

“Come on, Helmut,” Ostermann said. “Don’t
give the girl hopes. She’s already naïve enough. The boy is
maquis
and he is a faggot. And now the Gestapo has him. It is hopeless.”
He didn’t sound particularly upset about it. Ostermann turned to
Gabriela. “What this little French flower needs is a friend, don’t
you, my love?”

She wasn’t French, she wasn’t a flower, and
she wasn’t naïve.

She’d had no plans beyond tonight. Seduce
Hoekman, find out where they kept her father. And if that failed?
If they’d killed him? Then at least she could take her revenge,
steal whatever she could from Hoekman’s flat, and flee the city.
Head for the River Cher and get to the south side somehow, into
the formerly unoccupied territory. The
boches
had broken
their promises—didn’t they always?—and occupied Vichy all the way
to the sea, but it was different to the south. Even now the
Germans were thin in the Dordogne, she’d heard. But she’d have to
evade the
milice
and the other Vichy authorities. It would
be a desperate chance.

Gabriela faced desperation of a different
kind now. Major Ostermann offered her an escape. The thought of
going home with him made her stomach churn.

“The girl is shaken up, I think,” Helmut
said. “How about we give her a few francs and send her home for
the night? Maybe tomorrow, when she feels better, we’ll come
back.”

Ostermann shook his head. “She’d be safer
with company.”

“Safer from what?” she asked.

“Colonel Hoekman, of course. I just put him
off for the moment, but I guess you don’t speak German, so you
wouldn’t have heard what I said.”

“So he’ll be back?” There still might be a
chance.

“Not here, no. If you see him again, it will
only be when the Gestapo kicks down your door in the middle of the
night.”

She glanced at Helmut, but there was nothing
on his expression to tell whether or not Ostermann was telling the
truth. She thought he was bluffing about the Gestapo part,
although she had never passed a German in the street without
dreading a voice at her back shouting, “You! Halt!” The thought of
the Gestapo coming in the night filled her with a secret terror.

But never seeing Hoekman again was almost
worse. She had staked her last few resources on getting close to
him. And if that was gone, what?

A sense of tightening panic gripped her. She
had nothing left, no food, no money, nothing to sell. Even the
clothes on her back came from money she’d borrowed from Christine.

“And you must be lonely,” the major
continued. “My apartment is very warm. I can draw up hot bath
water. I had some pastries sent in this morning, but I couldn’t
eat them. How does that sound, Gabriela? What a pretty name, it
almost sounds Spanish or Italian.” After a moment of silence, he
asked again, “How does that sound?”

Weighed against what? Going back to the
bedbug-infested room she rented from the Demaraises? The old
couple could not afford to heat their own flat, let alone the
tiny, drafty converted hallway where there was barely enough room
to stand up or lay down her mattress. If she stood and left the
Germans’ table, she’d be shivering in bed tonight with nothing but
an aching in her belly. Listening to the rats behind the
floorboards, inches from her head, always gnawing, fighting,
fucking.

A hot bath, a warm bed. Pastries. Maybe a few
francs in the morning and a hot cup of real coffee. It sounded
like heaven.

All she had to do was whore herself to a
German officer. And pretend she liked it.

Another group of Germans entered, talking
loudly and smoking. No sign of Leblanc, but Christine swept into
the room, said something in German that made the men laugh, and
led them to a table. Just moments earlier the restaurant had been
a scene of terror and violence, but life went on. Christine
glanced her way and the two women shared a look of understanding.

Gabriela turned back to Ostermann and gave
her best charming smile. She hoped it hid her despair and
self-loathing. She put a hand on his knee. “A hot bath sounds
wonderful. I don’t suppose you have any perfumed soap.”

Ostermann beamed. “I can get some. You will
smell lovely.”

Chapter Four:

Gabriela thought it would be harder to
prostitute herself to a German.

She’d never, in fact, seriously considered
it. Had only approached Monsieur Leblanc so that she could get
close to Colonel Hoekman. And yes, she’d have slept with Hoekman,
but for something far greater than money. And yet here she was,
leaving the restaurant on Major Ostermann’s arm and she felt more
relief than anything.

Christine stopped Gabriela at the front door
of
Le Coq Rouge
as she
put on her coat. “Be careful,” she whispered as they embraced.

“Of course.”

She slipped something into the pocket of
Gabriela’s coat. Gabriela put her hand in the pocket and felt a
slip of paper as Ostermann led her out. A note? She wished she
could take it out and read it.

Gabriela had certainly misjudged Christine
that day in the flea markets. First in one direction, then the
other. Not so glamorous after all, just a prostitute. Gabriela
would never fall so low.

And now she was leaving the restaurant in the
company of a German for the first time. She fingered the note in
her pocket and wondered what Christine had to say. Final advice? A
warning? Something about the arrest of Roger Leblanc?

An old man was in the alley when she left the
restaurant on Major Ostermann’s arm, rummaging through the
rubbish. The old man wore a battered blue military coat of the
kind they wore in the
Guerre de Quatorze
and gloves
without fingers. His face was filthy and he smelled worse than the
garbage through which he pawed. But when the major stepped out
with the young French woman on his arm, he stood proud and erect.
He said nothing, did nothing to the German, but looked at Gabriela
with an expression of such disgust and loathing that she shrank
back.

What am I supposed to do?
she wanted
to plead to the old veteran.
For god’s sake, tell me!

Ostermann glanced at the old man, but the
man’s sneer was gone. A blank mask took its place. He turned back
to the garbage.

Ostermann snapped his fingers at a young
soldier, who left at a run and returned a moment later with a
black car. A chill breeze flapped the flags above the headlights,
which held the same straight-winged eagles above swastikas as his
hat.

“A Horch Cabriolet,” Ostermann said with a
touch of pride. “There is some advantage to being in charge of
requisitions, after all.”

“Is that a good car?”

He looked at her with a frown. “A luxury car
before the war.” Then, when she didn’t respond, he added, “The
same car Rommel drives.”

“Ah, of course. It’s very handsome, Major.”

This seemed to appeal to his vanity. He
smiled effusively, but waved his hand. “Please, none of that major
business here. My name is Alfonse.”

“Okay, Alfonse.”

He opened the door for her and she got in. He
entered from the other side. They sped off. Gabriela gave a glance
through the rear window to see the old man still watching. It was
too dark to see his expression.

Ostermann bragged as they left the 8
^th
Arrondissment. It was the only way to describe his method of
conversation. His boots were of Italian leather, he could get
American cigarettes. He had a large flat, heated and with hot
running water. He ate only the finest cuts of meat. Even Russian
caviar was not unknown to his plate.

“And our boys on the Eastern Front have had a
hell of a time of it lately, so you can imagine how hard caviar is
to find these days.” He seemed to catch himself. “Don’t repeat
that. The war is going very well.”

“Of course I won’t,” she said in a shocked
voice. “I never pass along any confidence.”

“That’s good. Anyway, I’m sure any setbacks
will be reversed come spring. The Russians put up a fierce
resistance in the winter, but they are rubbish once the tanks get
rolling. War these days is a thinking man’s battle and they’re no
good at strategy.”

“I wouldn’t know about that.”

“Not to mention that they’re more scared of
their own commissars than German bullets. They throw down their
weapons and surrender at the first opportunity.” He lit a
cigarette. “Or so I’ve heard.”

For his sake it was a good thing she wasn’t
with the
maquis
. He was a babbler; it wouldn’t be hard to
pry out military secrets with a few questions and a bit of
flattery.

She found herself hating him. His casual
acceptance of Roger Leblanc’s arrest and the accusation of
homosexuality. The way he left food on the plate in the
restaurant, while proud men had been reduced to rummaging through
the garbage. The way his driver sped around traffic and nearly ran
down a man trying to cross the street.

“Goddamn Jew, violating curfew,” Ostermann
said as the man leaped out of the way and they sped past without
slowing. He said something in German to the driver, who chuckled.

The whole city had been under curfew since
last February, but the Germans, in one of their periodic attempts
to show largesse, had lifted the curfew, except for Jews.

But nothing about the man’s appearance had
given an indication as to whether or not the man was a Jew, so far
as she could see. And never mind that the so-called
Ville-Lumière
—City
of Light—was a dark, dreary place at night, what with electrical
rationing and the forced blackouts. They’d been almost upon the
man before the Horch’s headlights caught his startled expression.
If it was anyone’s fault, surely it was the fault of the driver,
not the pedestrian.

“I had the most delicious lamb with mint
sauce yesterday,” Ostermann said. “I know you French love to talk
about food. You want to hear what my cook’s secret is?”

She was so hungry she could almost faint. A
few bites of venison had done nothing more than stoke her
appetite. She didn’t want to hear about lamb with mint sauce
unless it were on the end of her fork. “Yes, of course. How was it
prepared?”

Her mind went to another place as he gave the
details, but the only participation he required was a nod and a
smile and a light touch on his arm.

The driver stopped the car in front of a
block of apartments, not far from the Luxemburg Gardens. “Ah, here
we are.”

“Oh, how nice. I’ve always loved these flats,
Alfonse.”

“First thing, hot bath. Then those pastries.
They’re delicious, you’ll see.”

“And after we eat the pastries?” she asked in
a teasing tone.

He grinned back. “Then we have dessert.”

#

“Put your clothes on,” a man said in a
disgusted tone.

Gabriela sat up, half-awake, startled. Her
head pounded and it took a moment to remember where she was, last
night’s debauchery. Ah, the food, those glorious pastries. Had
they ever been so good before? She had never fully appreciated
them.

Her eyes focused and she saw Helmut von Cratz
standing at the doorway of the bedroom. He didn’t look at her and
she glanced down to see that she was naked, with sheets and
blankets tossed around. She hadn’t needed clothes or blankets to
stay warm last night. Apart from their physical efforts, Alfonse
(she’d stopped thinking of him as Major Ostermann sometime during
the night) must have wasted a week’s worth of coal heating the
apartment.

Gabriela pulled a sheet around herself. She
felt her face light up with shame. “How did you get in here?”

“The maid let me in.”

Indeed, the maid was in the salon, cleaning.
She passed by with a broom and a dustpan and did not look inside.

The events of last night came rushing back.

Gabriela had formed a plan: maintain a cold
distance. She had to sleep with the German, but she could
disengage her mind. She would let her body respond, but it would
be an act, and she’d be detached, watching everything. It was the
only way to keep her dignity. Just like the
maquis
were
willing to be tortured for France, she would let Alfonse have his
way with her sexually, so as to stay alive, to give herself a
chance to find Colonel Hoekman again.

The French army would have been proud at how
fast she surrendered to the German.

She had eaten two pastries, drank three
glasses of wine. Felt light-headed.

Alfonse, when he wanted to, could be
seductive. He flattered her, coddled her. Made promises and
suggestive remarks. When she seemed reticent, he buttered her with
charm.

Gabriela had lived in isolation for two
years, since she last saw her father. Four years since her first,
tentative boyfriend in Barcelona. She didn’t realize how much she
craved attention and human touch.