The muscles in his jaw bulged as he bit out his reply. “You chose to die, my darling. We are making a strong statement about traitors. At noon, the guards are going to line up all the criminals here and shoot them.” He tapped the crystal of his gold watch. “You have about two hours left. Try to savor the beauty of your Paris with Lieutenant Holtz.”
He shouted out a command. The door opened and he stalked from the room.
Claire let out a long breath. It felt like she’d been holding it for months. She rested a hand on the cold floor. There it was, then. Not so surprising, after all.
A soldier walked in flanked by two guards. He took up half the room with his wide shoulders and barrel chest; the guards at his side barely reached his shoulder badge. It held the designation of a specialist. It wasn’t hard to guess his specialty.
The guards lifted Claire and pushed her into the chair, binding her arms and legs. He dismissed them with a word, his meaty hands carefully rolled up each sleeve, showing corded arms crisscrossed in scars. He looked up and spoke in grammar-school French. “I am Lieutenant Holtz. You must have made Sturmbannführer von Richter angry. He made a special request for you.”
Claire glared at him, straightened against the chair. “I won’t talk.”
He rolled his massive shoulders and clenched his fists. “I won’t listen.”
Claire’s heart charged like a frightened horse.
The first blow lifted the front feet of the chair off the ground and snapped her head back. Bright lights splintered inside her closed eyes. Her mind curled inside her like fingers closing into a fist as the chair teetered back. She floated away, only dimly aware of her body shaking from the blows, the chair sliding backward across the uneven bricks. She puzzled at the howling of the wind in the distance. Is winter here already? As the velvety gloom closed in around her, she recognized the cries of her own raw voice.
It was the scent of roses that called her. She felt the cool breeze on her neck, the sun warming her face. She opened her eyes. Behind her was pain; in front of her was spring. Grey’s garden bloomed around her in deep greens and soft pastels. The apple tree showered blossoms onto the statue. Palest pink roses tumbled down a stone wall.
Claire flinched, the garden shook. Darkness grabbed her and she was in the room. Holz stood over her, blocking out the bulb’s light. The taste of blood filled her mouth. The smell of his sweat burned her nose. She saw his fist driving at her stomach.
Claire gasped, then blinked in the sunshine. She perched on the garden bench, sucking in deep breaths of fresh air, hands gripping the cool stone. Deep inside she heard the wind, stark fingers clawed at her, dragging her back into the blackness. She fought against it and savored the sweet tea scent of the roses, the rich deep smell of fresh earth.
“They look good, don’t they?”
Grey slid onto the bench next to her. He pointed a finger at the roses. “I knew they just needed to feel a lovely spring day.” Grey smiled, his eyes dancing. He wore the clothes she’d last seen him in. His worn leather boots were coated in farmyard mud. “That is all anything really needs.”
Claire tried to reach out to touch his face. She felt a flash of cold. In the darkness, her lungs burned, a part of her knew she was being slowly choked. Lights popped behind her eyes. Her body screamed for air.
Claire dropped her hand to her side, kept her eyes on Grey. She shuddered in the sun. “Thank you, Grey, for this place.”
“This isn’t real.”
A pulse of pain stole Claire’s breath. She fought as pain’s icy fingers tried to draw her back in. The burning lightened. Holz had let go. Far away, her lungs sucked in great gulps of air. “You’re here,” she said.
The firmness of his voice nearly startled her. “No. Neither of us is here. Not yet.” He cupped her face with a hand, enunciating every word. “You have to fight, Claire.”
Claire looked down at his hand, covered in smudges. She couldn’t tell if it was bruises or dirt. She closed her eyes, concentrated on the smell, the sound, the feeling, etched it in her soul.
Pain welcomed her. Claire slid forward as her hands and ankles were cut loose. She half caught herself as she hit the brick floor. There were more voices than before. A hand with bloodied knuckles grabbed the front of her dress and pulled her to her feet. She squinted against the glare of the bulb’s light. Her eyes focused on Holz.
He bared his teeth in a grin, the tendons in his neck bulged out around his collar. “Too bad. You should thank your luck. They are going to shoot you early.”
The words sank in as she was pushed from the room and carried down another long corridor. She heard scattered rifle shots in the distance as she stumbled down stairs and through a doorway in the courtyard.
Claire shielded her eyes against the sun’s blinding glare. The guard behind her shoved and she fell into a crowd of prisoners. Hands, bloodied and torn, helped her to her feet. Head swimming, she examined her surroundings. Soldiers pressed the battered prisoners up against the doorway. Before them stretched an open brick courtyard. Over the high stone walls, she saw rooftops and light blue sky. On the far wall, a line of heavy posts had been sunk into the ground; the stone behind them pockmarked by bullets.
“Américaine,”
a gruff voice rumbled.
Claire stumbled toward the edge of the crowd. Jacques leaned against the wall, his side covered in bloody bandages up his chest.
Tears crept into her eyes as she faced him. “Jacques.” She reached out a hand.
He looked her over, didn’t reply.
Claire dropped her hand, stung. She didn’t know what to say. To apologize, to confess, to explain. Nothing seemed adequate.
He grimaced from pain as he examined her. “You look like
merde
.”
Claire looked down; her aching hands unconsciously smoothed the soiled wrinkles of her dress. With shaking fingers she traced a trail of blood up her front, gingerly felt her raw neck, touched her swollen mouth and nose, both sticky with blood. She felt an oozing over a cheekbone where the gash from Sophie’s bullet had been reopened. Her hand came away crimson.
She looked back at Jacques. The slightest smile tugged at the edges of her mouth. “You are not so beautiful yourself.”
He nodded, chewed his lip, as if he were taking that into account.
The guard shouted a command, pointed his rifle toward the man standing in front of Jacques. “You there. First group.” He counted off. Jacques was seven, Claire eight. “Come now.” A group of soldiers broke them off from the rest.
Claire flinched, lost her breath, as she put her arm around Jacques.
He muttered as they staggered forward. “We join an esteemed group of patriots, today. The next group is going to have to load our bodies onto trucks before they die.”
Her body screamed at the effort. She forced her legs to stay straight, her eyes on Jacques. She couldn’t look at the posts or she might collapse. “Aren’t we lucky to go first and miss that chore.”
Jacques chuckled, it sounded more like a groan. “Grey was right about you.”
“No, Jacques. I don’t think he was.”
Jacques pulled her to stop. “You did what you had to do. It’s nobody’s fault except for those
boche
we didn’t get Grey out.”
A guard barked out a command and shoved his rifle barrel into Claire’s side.
Claire stumbled, hauling Jacques forward. She spoke under her breath, her voice shaking. “Did you see him die?”
Jacques turned to her, his face twisted. “Grey?”
“He was chased down by their dogs. Shot.”
He shook his head. “No. I was hit. And he was at my side, the last I remember. I’m sorry.”
Jacques was yanked from her arms. They were lined up each in front of a post. Claire closed her eyes as a soldier looped a rope around her, pulling her tight against the wood. She looked down the line of people. Young and old. Male and female. Aristocrats, schoolteachers, communists, farmers. The firing squad leveled their rifles.
Claire trained her gaze on the sky. Felt the sun on her skin, the breeze in her hair.
A deafening blast wrenched the pole from the earth and tossed Claire with it to the ground, knocking the air from her lungs. She laid there dazed, then took in a breath of air and dirt. The rope came free beneath the pole. Claire rolled over, gasping and choking.
She opened her eyes to the courtyard filled with smoke, bodies and running legs. Stone and wood splinters rained down; their impact kicked up dirt whorls in front of her face. Claire looked down. She wasn’t shot. She wasn’t dead. A crater the size of a car smoldered between her and what was moments ago the firing squad.
A pair of legs ran up to her; a hand pulled her to her feet. A French policeman, half his uniform cast off, pointed toward a large opening in the wall to the street. Her ears ringing from the blast, it took a moment before Claire realized he was yelling.
Fighters swarmed in through the opening, a mix of men in business suits, worker’s coveralls, and uniforms of firefighters and police. They carried pistols, rifles and machine guns. The citizens of Paris were around her. By God—Paris was armed and fighting.
Claire grabbed the policeman’s arm and pulled. Crouching, they picked their way over bodies and rubble. She dropped to her knees in front of Jacques’ crumpled form and rolled him over onto his back. Leaning over his face, she felt his warm breath on her cheek. A bullet tore into the dirt next to her hand.
Jacques’ eyelids fluttered. Claire grabbed his arm, the policeman grabbed the other. Dragging Jacques between them, they fell over a splintered post and around a sprawled man tangled in slack rope. His dead eyes stared toward the sky. They joined another freed prisoner crouched behind a fallen wall. Claire watched the bullets kick away bits of stone and dirt around them.
The policeman pointed back toward the prison. He spoke, she heard nothing. He tapped his white armband. The letters FFI and a double-hashed cross of Lorraine were drawn in black. He squeezed her arm, his eyes shining.
Vive la France,
he mouthed, then rushed back toward the center of the courtyard.
Claire watched him join a group of fighters charging through the yard toward the doors. They were met by a surge of Waffen-SS with machine guns that poured from the building. The German soldiers mowed down everything standing then advanced toward the opening, toward Claire and Jacques.
She felt Jacques stir next to her. She clenched his hand. “Jacques, we have to go. Now.”
His eyes slowly focused on her as she tucked her shoulder under his arm. Her legs nearly buckled. “Help me, Jacques. I can’t do this alone.”
He gritted his teeth and pushed himself off the ground. She straightened and hefted him to his feet. Bullets whipped by them as they stumbled toward the opening.
More fighters scrambled by, coming, going, bloodied or whole, their faces were ferocious, shining. Half dragging Jacques, Claire stumbled onto the sidewalk. Bodies littered the cobbles. Overhead, rifle barrels jutted from windows.
They crouched behind a burning car. “We have to run,” Claire said.
He nodded, his face ashen. Arm in arm, crouched low, they half ran, half staggered up the street. An explosion roared behind them, and they turned onto rue de Surène.
Claire saw the imposing Greek temple façade of L’Eglise de la Madeleine ahead. “The church.”
He nodded, but his face was pinched and his shirt dark with blood. She took a step, his legs gave out, and they toppled to the ground. Gunfire sputtered as a truck gunned up the street toward them. FFI and the cross of Lorraine were drawn on the side of the truck in white paint.
“Jacques.” Claire pulled at his arm. She heard the brakes scrape as the truck stopped next to them.
“Hurry,” a low voice called. A teenaged boy leapt out, followed by a woman holding a rifle.
“Forces Françaises de l’Intérieur,”
the boy shouted out as he muscled Jacques into the back of the truck.
Claire crawled up behind them and the engine gunned. Two blocks later, when the truck roared past a burning German tank, Claire understood. The Allies were coming.
T
he FFI dropped them off a few blocks from the fighting. They holed up in a Resistance apartment in Saint-Germain. Jacques on the bed, Claire on the floor; she collapsed into sleep where she fell. A day and a night later, she woke to find him delirious and burning with fever; the bullet in his side infected. Amidst sporadic gunfire, patrolling tanks and milling crowds, Claire staggered with Jacques through the wounded into the Hospital Hôtel-Dieu next to Notre Dame Cathedral.
Two medics took Jacques; a nurse led Claire to a women’s room. After her cheek was flushed with a mixture that made her spit out farmyard curses, she was bandaged and ordered to rest.
When the nurse left the room, Claire located a small shaving mirror. Her face was swollen; a heavy bandage covered her cheek. Her eyes were puffy and black, her nose inflated, the bridge bruised. She stared for a few minutes, ran her hands lightly over the bandage on her cheek, imagining the wound below. Well, she decided, living had to count for something.
Tossing the mirror on the bed, Claire went looking for Jacques. She found him in a large room lined with wounded; his cot was next to a window overlooking the cathedral. Unconscious and fevered, he mumbled under his breath. The bullet had been taken out, the nurse told Claire, but he was very weak. Too weak, her tired eyes said. The nurse gave him an injection for the pain, muttered a prayer and moved on to the next cot. Claire curled up on the windowsill next to his bed. If he was going to die that night, he shouldn’t die alone. If he lived, well, even better she was nearby.
T
he next morning Claire woke with the warmth of the sun heating the bandage on her cheek. Stretching stiff muscles, she stood, a hand unconsciously feeling her face. She winced as she touched her cheek. But her nose, at least, felt less swollen.