The weather was changing again, the clouds blowing past to reveal a mackerel sky. Mackerel sky, mackerel sky—Never long wet and never long dry, she thought, remembering the old nursery rhyme. Ciel moutonné, or fleecy sky, as the French say.
She’d been left in a neighborhood with a Baroque church on one side, and a coiffeur and shops—a bakery, a butcher, a pharmacy—along the other. But there were hardly any goods on display in the shop windows. The only things of which there seemed an abundance were portraits of Pétain. In the window of an abandoned cheese shop, a dusty framed photograph of the field marshal’s face stared back at her blankly. Below, in front of empty wine bottles covered in grime, a marmalade cat slept, reminding her of her own ginger tabby, Mr. K, back in London. Maggie was suddenly struck by a wave of homesickness, wanting nothing more than to bury her face in K’s fur and hear his rumbling purr. No time for that now.
Next to the shop were the closed and chained double doors of an apartment building. Maggie squinted to read the swastika-covered placard: HERE LIVED FIVE JEWS, WHO KILLED THEMSELVES. COURSE OF ACTION HIGHLY RECOMMENDED TO OTHERS. She felt ill.
“Le Matin! Le Matin!” cried a news vendor in the distance, while across the street she could hear the grind of metal coming from Coutellerie Dubois & Fils, a knife-sharpening business. She could make out the approaching march of hobnailed boots, growing ever louder, along with the strains of a German folk song:
Es zittern die morschen Knochen,
Der Welt vor dem gro?en Krieg.
Wir haben den Schrecken gebrochen,
Für uns war’s ein gro?er Sieg.
She realized what it was they were singing so merrily—
The rotten bones are trembling,
Of the World because of the great War.
We have smashed this terror,
For us it was a great victory.
Good God, she thought in horror, instinctively taking a step back, farther into the shadows. Here she was, alone in occupied Paris, with the German Army marching by. It was almost—almost—funny, and she bit her lip to hold back a peal of hysterical laughter.
The parade was followed by a second line of what could only be off-duty German soldiers—broad-shouldered, loud, and stumbling. A young man, well over six feet tall with corn-yellow hair and blotchy red skin, holding a map, asked in passable French, “Pardon, mademoiselle, but could you please tell us the way to the Eiffel Tower?” His breath reeked of beer.
One of his companions, shorter and darker, with a camera looped around his neck, grinned as he lurched toward her. “We’re lost…”
The rest of the group guffawed in a good-natured way, one turning to stagger into the street, to photograph the church’s bright blue clock.
The German with the map was too close. Maggie struggled to suppress the abject terror she felt. “Of course,” she managed, trying to recall the layout of Paris. “First you—”
Before she could explain where they were and how to get to the tower, there was a loud crack, a guttural cry, and then a thump. The staggering soldier had been struck by a thin, gray-haired man on a bicycle. As the cyclist realized what had happened and pedaled madly to escape, the German fell to the pavement, unconscious, his head bleeding.
Maggie ran to the fallen man; blood streamed down his forehead. She yanked off her gloves and balled them up to press on the wound. The white gloves were quickly stained red.
Like a wolf pack, the Germans ran after the man on the bicycle. Maggie looked up from the injured man’s bloody face to watch in horror. The one with the map whipped a Luger from his inside jacket pocket and shot the terrified man in the back as he pedaled away. Both Frenchman and cycle dropped to the cobblestone street.
As the Germans returned to their fallen comrade, a Grosser Mercedes with swastika flags mounted on its front bumpers rounded the corner and stopped short. The driver, a sharp-featured man with a black eye patch, hopped out. He scurried around the car to open the passenger door.
A German officer emerged. He was not tall but was powerfully built, like a wrestler. Maggie could tell from the gold bullion embroidered oak leaf on his peaked cap that he was a Generaloberst, one of the highest-ranking officers in the German Army. “What happened?” he barked without preamble, hands clasped behind his back, posture impeccable.
“That one”—the tall blond soldier pointed to the crumpled body of the Frenchman lying on the street—“hit our friend with his bicycle. We took care of it, sir.”
The Generaloberst looked down at the hurt German photographer and grimaced, shaking his head. He then looked at Maggie, cradling the man’s head in her lap. “How is he?”
Before she could answer, the injured man took a noisy breath and opened his eyes. “Why, hallo, beautiful Fr?ulein,” he managed with an unfocused smile up at Maggie, who was still pressing her gloves to his wound.
The General snapped his fingers, pointed, and the soldiers dragged the Frenchman’s body away into an alley. Another kept the bicycle. The hurt German struggled to sit up.
“He seems to be all right,” she told the Generaloberst, doing her best not to look at the pool of the murdered Frenchman’s blood staining the street not far away. “I’d recommend a doctor examine him, though—he could have a concussion.”
The man wobbled to his feet.
“You—go see a doctor as the mademoiselle suggested. I’ll speak with you about your conduct later,” the Generaloberst rebuked.
The injured man hung his head.
Then the German officer extended his hand; Maggie grasped his fingers, rising. The Generaloberst took her in, from her chic Chanel hat to the balled-up, bloody gloves she held, then clicked his heels together and bowed. “May I see your papers, mademoiselle?”
“Of course.” Maggie couldn’t quite conceal the tremor in her voice.
She opened her purse, which she’d carefully prepared for such an occasion. Inside were Métro tickets, a silver compact, a deck of worn French playing cards, and a clipping from the Occupationist newspaper, Je Suis Partout, about Elsa Schiaparelli’s new collection. There was also a large wad of francs in a wallet; if asked, she would say she was obliged to carry the sum for hotel bills.
“Here you go, sir,” she said, handing over her passport. It had been carefully and deliberately frayed, as though handled at dozens of security points, to correspond with her cover story.
He accepted it, eyebrows rising. “Irish,” he said with some surprise, then handed it back to her. “Last weekend, I saw the film Leinen aus Irland. Excellent film. About the Germans and Irish working together.”
“Yes,” Maggie managed, voice stronger, dropping the passport back in her bag, along with the ruined gloves. “I read a review.”
“Ireland is neutral in this war. We Germans like neutrals—‘The enemy of my enemy is my friend,’ as they say.”
Yes, I’ve heard that before.
The Generaloberst clicked his heels together. “You must allow me to replace your gloves. It was good of you to help a young German boy, so far away from home.” He bowed again.
The German soldiers nodded in unison, staring at her with a mixture of admiration and longing. If they weren’t so terrifying—and if a man hadn’t just been murdered—it would have been almost comical.
“I would have helped anyone who was hurt,” Maggie replied.
The Generaloberst gestured to the trunk and cases. “Are these yours, mademoiselle?”
“Yes, my vélo-taxi driver became…winded.”
“He was obviously not German, then,” one of the soldiers said loudly. “A German would never have let a beautiful woman down!”
The Generaloberst made a dismissive gesture, and the soldiers hastily dispersed, two of them helping their injured comrade. “And where were you headed, mademoiselle—before all of this happened?”
“The H?tel Ritz,” she managed, folding her hands to stop their trembling. She noted there was blood on them, in half-moons under her fingernails. She battled a wave of nausea.
He inclined his head. “Permit me to escort you. To thank you for your service to the Reich.” He snapped his fingers, and the waiting driver opened the car’s trunk and began placing her luggage inside. “To the H?tel Ritz.”