The Unlikely Allies (10 page)

“Why, yes. As a matter of fact, I’ve studied it quite a bit.”

“I’m struggling with one of my courses in that area. I don’t suppose you’d care to help me along?”

Rachel did not answer, and Derek saw an inner struggle in her. “What is it?”

“I’m . . . I’m Jewish.”

“That doesn’t matter to me.”

“It does to some Germans. It does to Hitler.”

His face flushed in embarrassment. “I wish he didn’t feel like that, and
I
certainly don’t.”

Rachel was not impulsive. She had learned to be careful, especially in Paris, but there was something clean and strong
about this man, and she made a quick decision. “I’ll meet you at the campus library tomorrow, if you’d like. We can talk about literature.”

“Fine. What time?”

“Would one or two o’clock be all right?”

“One o’clock would be just right. I’ll see you then.” He turned to go, but she reached out and touched his arm.

“I meant what I said. I’ll never forget what you did for me. You saved me from a terrible fate.”

“I’m glad I was there. If I were you, I’d pay heed to Madame Billaud. It’s not good to roam the streets of Paris after dark.” He opened the door. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Rachel went to the stairwell and watched him exit the building, then saw Madame Billaud standing at her apartment door on the first floor looking up at her.

“Have nothing to do with him,” she warned, pointing her finger up at Rachel. “He’s a German.”

“But he came to my rescue. That counts for something, doesn’t it?”

Madame Billaud shook her head, a grimness on her face. “He may seem nice enough, but they’re all the same. Stay away from him.”

Rachel did not argue. “Good night,” she said, then turned and went back into her apartment. When she closed the door, she walked over to the window and looked out at the street below, but he was already gone. “Thank God he came!” she said aloud before turning to prepare for bed.

****

“Sometimes I think a sidewalk café in Paris is the most interesting place in the whole world.”

Rachel shook her head decidedly. “I don’t agree. I think almost any woods in the world with trees and grass and a running stream is better than any café on any street in Paris.” She took a bite of her cake.

“You’re just a romantic,” he said.

“I suppose I am, but then you are too.” Rachel watched as surprise washed across Derek’s face. The two had spent an hour and a half together at the library, talking incessantly. At Derek’s suggestion, they had left and made their way to a small café with five tables outside, all of which were now filled. She watched his face as he talked, impressed with his strength. His wide mouth was expressive when he smiled, and she noticed a small faint scar shaped like a fish hook at the left corner of his mouth.

“What makes you think I’m a romantic?” he asked.

Rachel sipped her tea and smiled, and once again he noticed the dimple that gave her a little-girl quality. “You like romantic literature,” she said, “and you like to rescue damsels in distress. I think you dramatize everything.”

“No, that’s not true!” he protested. “I’m very much of this world.”

“No, I think you came to my rescue because you’re a romantic. You see yourself as an Ivanhoe, and you came to the rescue of the Jewish maiden Rebecca.” She laughed at his expression. “You shouldn’t have told me you liked romantic novels like
Ivanhoe.
It tells me so much about you.”

“Well, I suppose you’re right. My father tried to get it all out of me when I was growing up, but he didn’t succeed too well, I’m afraid.”

Her companion seemed so strong, Rachel thought, yet she sensed that he was putting a damper on his youthful vitality. She noted that the corners of his lips had a tough, sharp set to them, yet behind the hardness was something else. Behind his light blue eyes lay an obvious compassion and interest in people. He seemed capable of looking deeply into others, and such a gift would bind people to him. There was also a deliberateness about him, and she knew he was a man who could spring into action. He had demonstrated that when he had come to her rescue.

Derek Grüber had a good sense of humor as well, sharp and sometimes self-ridiculing, which pleased her.

“You’re looking at me pretty closely,” he suddenly said. “What dark thoughts are running through your head now?”

Rachel returned his smile. “Whether to wear my blue dress or my green one tomorrow.”

“I’d wear the green dress if I were you. It’s my favorite color.”

The two sat there enjoying each other’s company, and Rachel knew this man had the ability to please women. Not that he appeared to be a womanizer, but he had a frank openness that invited female attention.

“What were you like when you were a little girl?” he asked.

“I was smaller.”

Derek laughed. “I know that. But what were you
like?
”

Rachel sipped her tea and shrugged her shoulders. “They tell me the first thing I reached for was the moon, but I’ve never been able to reach it.”

“Neither have I.”

She smiled as she remembered something that had happened when she was a young.

“What are you smiling about?”

“I just thought of something I hadn’t thought of in years. When I was a little girl of five or six, I asked my mom for a piece of—” she searched for the word in French and finally thought of it—”chalk and took a coin from my bank. I went out to the sidewalk and put the coin down, and then I drew a line all the way from the coin to the corner and down the other side. And then I wrote on the sidewalk, ‘Money this way.’ ”

“Did you stay to watch someone go find the money?”

“No, I never did. It’s fun to think about it, though.” She shrugged. “What a foolish thing to do.”

“Not at all. I did things like that. I used to put coins on the railroad track. The trains would pass over them and flatten them out, and I’d drill holes in them and string them together. I think I still have one of those strings somewhere.”

She ordered more tea, and he got more coffee, and he asked about her family.

“My parents are getting on in years,” she told him.

“They live in Czechoslovakia?”

“Yes. My father was a watchmaker, but he’s retired now. When I finish my coursework, I’ll go back—mostly to take care of them.” She looked at him over her teacup. “What about your family?”

“My mother’s dead. My father’s in the army.”

She heard the spareness of his reply. “What are you going to do?”

“My father wants me to go into the army.”

His answer troubled her, but she did not let it show. “Will you?”

“I don’t know. It’s not what I want to do.” He looked down at his hands as he answered.

“What would you like to do?”

“I’d rather be a teacher.”

His answer surprised her, but when she gave it a moment’s thought, it made sense.

“I’d like to be a writer too,” he continued.

“I’d love to see what you’ve written.”

“I don’t feel comfortable showing my work to people.”

Rachel lifted her eyebrows with surprise. “What good will it do if nobody reads what you’ve written?”

“It does
me
good.”

She laughed. “I suppose that’s enough, then.” She looked at her watch and exclaimed, “I need to go!”

“There’s a play on tonight that you might like to see. It’s no fun to go alone. Would you go with me?” When she hesitated, he smiled. “I’m harmless, Rachel.”

“Well then . . . I’d love to go.”

“Good! I’ll pick you up at six. We’ll go out to eat, and maybe I’ll let you read one of my poems.”

“I’d like that very much.”

They got up, and he walked her back to her apartment. As she went inside the building, Madame Billaud said, “You’re with that German, I see.”

“He’s really very nice, Madame Billaud.”

The woman did not answer. She had lost her father in the Great War and had never forgiven the Germans for it. “You’d better stay away from him. I don’t trust that man Hitler. You mark my words. He won’t be satisfied with any less than ruling all of Europe—and maybe the world!”

****

Rachel lay back on the green grass, enjoying the warmth of the earth. Overhead a number of sparrows were flitting from limb to limb, and she watched them with delight. She turned her head to Derek, who was sitting beside her reading from a book he had brought along. The remnants of a picnic lunch lay to her right, and there was a peace and quiet here from the incessant city noise. As they had eaten, they had debated the merits of various poets and quoted their favorite poems, but now Rachel was relaxing as Derek read.

May had come, and the hard winter was only a memory. She studied Derek, thinking,
It hasn’t even been a year since we met, and I feel like I’ve known him all my life.

Derek noticed that she was looking at him, and humor danced in his eyes. He put his book down and leaned closer to her. “You think I’m a handsome fellow, don’t you?”

She did think him handsome but would not say it. “I think you’re egotistical.”

“Well, I think
you’re
handsome.” He reached out and touched the dimple in her cheek. “I wish I had dimples, one in each cheek, just like this one.”

“I hated that dimple when I was a girl.”

She sat up and stretched her legs out in front of her. “What are you reading?”

“A poem by a British poet, Thomas Hardy. It’s called ‘The Man He Killed.’ ”

“Oh yes. I’ve read a poem or two by Hardy. He writes long novels as well, doesn’t he? Very gloomy.”

He read the poem slowly. He was a good reader, and she loved the sound of his voice.

“You like that poem? I wouldn’t think you would.”

“Why not?”

“Well, it’s an antiwar poem.”

“Yes, it is. That’s why I like it.” His eyes grew cloudy, and he spoke softly. “I feel like the speaker in the poem. Young men join the army for a lark. And when battle comes, they kill the soldiers in front of them—men who are like them in almost every way.”

Rachel shook her head. “You’re a mystery to me, Derek. The Germans are the most militaristic people on the face of
the earth. Your father’s a general, and yet you don’t like war. I thought all Germans were warriors.”

“I suppose there’s a lot of that in my people, but that trait seems to have been left out of me.”

“Read me something you’ve written.”

“All right. I will.” He did not take out a piece of paper but turned to her. To her surprise he reached out and took her hand. “This one’s called ‘To Rachel.’ ”

Rachel’s face grew warm as she listened.

Rachel found herself unable to speak for a moment; then she whispered, “That’s beautiful, Derek. Thank you so much.”

Derek sat very still and watched her. She had not moved, and she was looking at him with her face lifted, her lips motionless. He saw the quick rise and fall of her bosom and the sunlight on her hair, and he drew her toward him in one quick gesture. He waited for her protest and was astonished when it didn’t come. He had found this woman full of grace and beauty, and now the yearning of a lone man moved toward her like the needle on a compass.

She caught his gaze and waited, saying nothing but arresting him with a sweetness that fueled his intense feelings for her.

Derek touched his lips to hers and felt her surrender. He drew her closer, his heart aching with the feelings he had for her at this moment. She had the ability to touch him as no other woman he had ever met.

But then Rachel suddenly pushed him away, her expression disturbed. “We shouldn’t have done that,” she whispered.

“Why do you say that? You must know I’m falling in love with you.”

“But you can’t.”

“Why not?”

Rachel looked at him directly. “What would your father say?”

Her words stopped Derek as if he had run into a door. He had no answer. She rose to her feet and he followed. “We can never be more than very good friends, Derek. That’s all we can ever be.”

CHAPTER EIGHT

The Parting

January 1937 brought sharp Arctic blasts to Paris and sleet that coated the streets with an icy sheen. As Derek walked cautiously along the street, the sidewalk under his feet was one solid sheet of slippery ice. He had already seen two people slip and fall as if their legs had been jerked out from under them. Keeping his head down, he thought about the months that had passed since the day he had told Rachel he loved her. That had been a fine day! Even now, surrounded by ice and snow, he could almost smell the fresh green grass and hear birds chattering in the trees overhead and see the gleam of golden red that tinted Rachel’s hair in the bright sunlight.

He was savoring the memory when a dog appeared in front of him—an indeterminate breed, thin and with woeful eyes. It was a strange bluish-brown, and its ribs showed so plainly that Derek could count them. “What’s the matter, boy? Are you hungry?” The dog eyed him apprehensively, but as Derek did not move, it began to wag its tail. “It’s hard on fellows like you in the winter, isn’t it?” Derek noticed that there was a meat market across the street. “Wait here, friend. I’ll be right back.”