V
on Richter didn’t come that night.
A major operation,
Schneider told her when he called. Claire spent the night staring at the dark outline of buildings and the street below. A major operation against who, she wondered. She woke the next morning with a churning stomach. Throwing off her blankets, she dressed and left the hotel.
On the watch for Odette, Claire took a long walk that ended at parc Monceau. A heavy-set man in a long coat trailed her the whole distance. He moved like a bull, confident, his attention focused ahead, and tossed a half-smoked cigarette onto the ground without a thought. Only Gestapo would waste precious tobacco that way. She threw bread crumbs to the birds and went back to her room to brood.
Schneider knocked on her door that afternoon. Averting his eyes from her thin silk robe, he spoke. “The Sturmbannführer will take you to the opera tonight. He asked if there was anything you needed.”
Claire could feel the disdain radiating from the lieutenant. She let her robe slip open an inch. “Please give the Sturmbannführer my thanks. I require a new opera dress. And hat. And gloves.”
The afternoon was spent on les Champs. Schneider bought the dress, midnight blue with a nipped waist and a thin deep vee with gathers over the breast. A matching hat tipped forward on her forehead, topped with a silver feather. She decided against gloves but
required
a fur stole.
If von Richter was going to make her wait, he should know he would pay.
Schneider doled out the money, but his eyes burned. Claire slid her hand down his arm and smiled as he picked up the wrapped boxes. He walked two paces in front of her back to the hotel.
That evening, a driver dropped von Richter and Claire in front of the Opéra Garnier next to a wooden pole bristling with German signs. Von Richter took her arm, cutting through the crowd toward the theater entrance.
He examined the women hanging on to milling officers, then glanced down at Claire’s dress. “You did well today.”
“All for you.” She ran her fingers over the diamonds. “Consider it a gift for you to unwrap.”
They passed beneath stone arches and entered the foyer. An usher led them up a glittering marble staircase. Claire stared as they stepped into a box overlooking the auditorium. They were on the second level; there was one more above to the high-domed ceiling. The walls were covered in gold, the stage impossibly far away.
“You like it?” von Richter said as they settled into red velvet seats in the front.
“It’s spectacular.” The awe in her voice was real.
He touched the diamonds nestled between her breasts and let his fingers slide down to her thighs. “Tell me this is why you came to Paris.”
The smile froze on her face. She would have come here with Grey. She’d have worn a flower in her dress lapel, something simple and refined, chosen by Madame Palain. It felt as though the world had split in two. The Paris she dreamed of. And what was. She pressed against von Richter. “This is why I came to Paris.”
The seats filled in around them, then the floor below. German men in uniforms and business suits. The suits weren’t less dangerous, just more discreet. Some of the women were French, judging by their look. A few sturdier women, their expressions all business, Claire pegged to be German.
The room dimmed, lit only by a giant chandelier hanging from a painted dome and a circle of glowing lights. A burst of sound, with the trill of violins crashing over a low rolling bass. The curtain rose, revealing the dark timbers of a building, a woman tending the fire burning inside. A warrior limped in and began to sing in German to the woman.
“What is happening?” Claire asked von Richter.
He turned from his survey of the crowd and ran his hand over her thigh. “Siegmund. Kinky fellow. Full of brotherly love.”
At intermission, they joined the crowd from the upper boxes in the Grand Foyer, a long hall with glossy marble floors, painted ceilings and heavy chandeliers.
“Sturmbannführer von Richter,” a voice called out and a group of officers approached.
A server in a white coat offered glasses of champagne on a silver tray. He leaned into Claire as he handed her a flute. “A friend awaits you.”
“Where?” Claire said under her breath.
He tilted his head toward a side door. “Go left.”
“I need to powder my nose. Don’t forget me,” Claire said to von Richter with a wink. He nodded and turned to the officers.
The door opened into a long hall. Claire passed by two servers loaded down with trays, then paused, a glance back, then descended a long set of stairs. The air turned chill and damp. The walls were heavy stone, marked with writing, and cold under her hand. She shivered as the stairs ended at a small room, the far side shrouded in darkness.
“
Bonsoir
, Evelyn.” Odette stepped from the gloom.
“You took your sweet time to contact me, Danielle.”
“You must leave Paris,” Odette said. “While you still can.”
“Didn’t you look at my message? You have to figure out those codes, what they mean.”
Odette shook her head impatiently. “Information is being leaked to the SS. We will find and plug that leak. But right now, we cannot risk your knowledge of us getting to the Nazis. You must go.”
“I’m inside the Ritz, Odette. Where you wanted me to be. What I passed to you is just a taste.”
“Your Nazi, von Richter, is
Sicherheitsdienst
. Nazi intelligence. He points, the Gestapo kills. You will be forced to choose between Grey and a man who holds your life in his hand. You will compromise us all with him.”
“Grey could be on a list. Or others. I have to take the chance.”
“Christophe won’t allow you to proceed,” Odette said.
“Grey needs your help. I am offering you a real chance. You are going to walk away from that and turn your fight against me?” Claire fought the urge to shake her.
“They will stop you.”
Claire turned back toward the stairs.
Odette’s voice echoed off the stone walls. “You endanger everyone you know, everyone you touch. This is your warning. Your only warning. If you don’t leave now, you are on your own, you understand?”
T
he sheets tangled around Claire’s legs as she traced lines on von Richter’s bare back with the soft tip of her silk stocking. He leaned off the side of his bed, pouring a glass of scotch from a half-empty bottle.
Claire felt as though she were made from glass. Her heartache bled through to her skin. It was good von Richter was damn drunk.
“You’ve gone too quiet. Entertain me,” he said.
Claire crawled onto his back, wrapping the stocking around them both. “I was wondering, Alby, how you got to be here.”
He took a long drink and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “I told you long ago. There is a thing about this town and the women.”
Claire took the glass from his hand and drank. “You’re too handsome to need a uniform, Alby. And rich. They would spread their legs for you anyway. Why this?” She gestured at his uniform crumpled on the floor.
He frowned, took back the glass, refilled and drank again. “I cared nothing for Hitler’s party. They are too serious, too sacrificing. But what could I do? I was going to get pulled in one way or another. In Germany, one must participate.” With an arm, he swept her off his back and rolled over to face her. He raised his glass to her. “This way I came to Paris. My dirty factories are chugging along in Saxony and churning out money, without me.” He leaned in to kiss her. “Like you, I came here for pleasure.”
“What happened to your partner, Merkel? Is he stuck in the factories?”
He shrugged and dropped the empty glass. The heavy crystal thudded as it hit the carpet. “Come to find out, his grandfather was a Jew.”
Claire’s stomach turned. She forced a smile and pushed him onto his back, straddling him, then reached for the bottle. She welcomed the burn that slid down her throat like a flaming bomb. Better to feel that than the chill that cramped her chest. You don’t get to kill Grey too, she told him silently. She slid her hand between his legs.
W
hen the empty bottle lay abandoned on the floor and von Richter’s heavy snore filled the room, Claire slipped from the bed and padded silently toward his study. Closing the door softly behind her, she lit a candle and moved toward the desk. The night outside was black, the moon a sliver. She had time.
The night passed with Claire examining every paper in the study for any indication of Grey. She gave up as traffic began to flow outside the window. Every honk, every rumble, made her heart race. She crawled in bed, her nerves brittle.
The ring of the phone jangled too loud in the sunlit room. Von Richter moaned and rolled over beside her. A mumbled German curse and he reached for the receiver. “Of course. Come by at 9:00. We will talk.” Dropping the receiver in place, he rolled from bed. “Duty calls. Get out now, my luscious
schlampe
.”
Claire only stretched, curving her body toward him. She wasn’t going anywhere without seeing what this was about. “You smell like a dead bum,
mein Sturmbannführer
. Let me bathe you.”
He threw her dress at her and jerked on his pants. “You are leaving. Dressed or not. Your decision.”
A theatrical sigh and Claire reached for a stocking. She was dressed and at the entry when the door reverberated with a light knock. Glancing back, she saw von Richter bent over the bed slipping on his boots. He hadn’t heard.
“Go.” He strode into the bathroom. Water splashed in the sink.
Claire reached for the knob.
The Comte de Vogüé stood in the doorway, his eyes flicked open wide.
A gasp escaped her mouth. She heard von Richter walk in the room.
“Entrez,”
she said.
He examined her, a soft smile, and he entered.
Von Richter offered the Comte a tight smile. “Good morning.”
“We haven’t been introduced,” the Comte said, his eyes boring into Claire.
“Comte de Vogüé, this is Madame Badeau.” Von Richter opened the door wide for her to leave.
Her gaze was glued to the Comte’s face.
“Enchante.”
He reached for her hand and held it tight as he brushed his lips against her skin.
“Madame Badeau is just leaving,” von Richter said and turned to his desk.
The Comte pulled Claire toward him. “You play with fire,” he whispered in her ear then kissed her cheek. “
Au revoir
, Madame. I hope to see you again. Soon.”
“Madame Badeau,” von Richter said, the impatience clear in his tone.
“Au revoir.”
Claire sucked in a deep breath as she stepped into the hall. She didn’t know if she should run for the exit or dress for lunch. She pressed her ear to the wood.
Américaine?
the Comte said.
They should start getting used to real men between their legs,
von Richter said with a laugh.
She slid from the door as she heard the creak of hobnailed boots in the hallway.
Soon
, the Comte said. She didn’t know his game, but she would play along, if that was what it took. If not, then she just had to make sure he died first. She strolled past the soldiers toward the stairs. Her olive skirt and jacket for lunch, then.
Place Vendôme. July 12, 1944.
A
soft rain tapped the awning in front of the Ritz. Claire pulled her coat tight as she stepped out onto the sidewalk, nodding at the soldiers positioned on each side of door. The sun had dipped behind the rooftops, leaving the square in misty blue-toned shadow.
Claire waited for von Richter’s car. Another evening hung up at the SD office on avenue Foch, he was already an hour late for the dinner and show at Le Bal des Etoiles. The breeze was perfumed with blooming chestnut trees.
It smells of summer, Claire. No army can stop that,
Madame Palain told her last year when the trees blossomed on their street. It had been a beautiful day, the shop windows glowing with a golden light. Madame’s arms had been full of jasmine. The memory dug into Claire’s chest. She sighed and tugged on the waistband of her yellow silk dress, reflexively checking the seams of her silk stockings.
She needed a drink.
Last night she’d dreamed of Marta and Anna again. Claire never saw their faces, only heard them. Sobbing. Keening. She awoke sweating in her sheets, her eyes swollen. She was dressed and in her coat before she convinced herself not to go see them.
You endanger everyone you know, everyone you touch,
Odette had said. Now on the street she thought of Madame and her eyes ached. I just need to get out, a little music, she scolded herself.
Her body tensed as she watched a burly dark-haired man striding on the opposite sidewalk. A resemblance to Jacques, but when he turned onto the street, she saw a long thin face she didn’t know. She released her held breath.
Claire saw Jacques once last winter after Odette’s warning, as she walked along the Champs-Elysées. He was waiting for her in a doorway. He made sure she saw him but said nothing, his face hard. She understood the message, and on ration day before Christmas, Claire rode the Métro to the 14th arrondissement and found Adele Oberon in the ration line on rue Brézin. Claire said nothing but slipped one last message and a pile of francs and reichsmarks in Adele’s shopping bag before she walked away. Then the dreams began.
Claire watched the rain drip from the leaves of chestnut trees and puddle onto the cobblestones. Bullets couldn’t stop summer’s sweet offering. But the sky wept for Madame Palain.
“He’s put some meat back on your bones.”
Sylvie shrugged on a jacket as she scrutinized Claire from silk dress to strappy heel. Claire stared at the street. She wasn’t in the mood to trade jabs today. Together they watched von Richter’s car approach.