I glance over my shoulder at Emil. The waning light of day reflects off the crowns embossed on the brass buttons of his gray officer’s uniform. Having just come from giving his orders to his men, he looks impeccable in his knee-high black boots and single-breasted tunic. The black visor of his Deutsche Luftstreitkr?fte cap hides the strawberry tones of his blond hair and casts a shadow over his eyes. I know his eyes without having to see them. They’re hooded, almost to the point of looking lazy, but they are anything but unobservant. The blue of them misses nothing, and of late, the only person they seem to seek out is me. They stalk me.
Some of the other German air force pilots are pulling out of Lille within a fortnight. British and American troops are pushing them out of France. By the end of 1918, the city should be liberated after years of German occupation; the tragedy is that there’s not much of it left standing to free. Emil thinks he can take me with him to his next position. He’s wrong. I’m leaving tonight. I just needed to find out where they planned to move. Now that I have the information, I no longer need to stay. I can be finished with this place forever—done spying on my enemies and leave with Xavier, my British contact, for Paris.
“Sch?tzchen,” he calls me “sweetheart,” as if he’s a lovesick fool, but we both know he’s incapable of the emotion. He’s without feeling, devoid of kindness or charity...or mercy. I don’t stop, but cross the red brick driveway from our main residence toward the carriage house. I need to collect my bicycle and be by the river at dusk.
“Simone, your rules should no longer apply since I have a very clear grasp of English now. Can we not speak in Deutsche? You need to work on your accent, Sch?tzchen,” He switches from playful German to amused English as he trails me. He has lost most of his accent; he sounds almost flawless. Deadly. I taught him English when he ordered me to never again speak to him in French or German. He knows it’s not my rule, but it amuses him to make it seem like it is. He makes all the rules.
When I don’t stop, but continue to hurry toward the gabled doors of the stables where I’ve stowed my bicycle, his voice turns stern. “Simone!”
I stop immediately, my feet as lead, and turn toward him to wait. He leans on the silver, wolf-shaped handle of his black cane; his left foot drags as he moves toward me on the drive. His limp is the second thing I noticed when I had met him. The first was that he has the face of an angel.
Emil had been a pilot early on in the war, but was wounded when British forces shot up his plane. He managed to make it back to his base and salvage his aircraft, a feat for which he earned a commendation. His award means nothing to him. It only serves as a reminder to him that he’ll never be allowed to fly another combat mission; a fact that causes him as much agony as the bullet still lodged in his leg. He has been working in intelligence ever since—stationed in Lille.
That’s how I met Emil. He needed a nursemaid—someone who could see to his wound and help him with his daily activities. I had been hand picked by him. He had found me when German infantry soldiers forced me, and many French citizens, into the streets of Lille on an April morning. The young and able-bodied women of Lille were to be transported to German labor camps by the order of General von Graevenitz. Emil had been there and had addressed the assembled crowd as carts pulled up to take us to waiting trains.
Emil announced that he needed someone who could speak and read English, someone who could also dress wounds and help him with his rehabilitation. Being the niece of a physician, my aunt pushed me forward from the crowd, thinking she was saving me from the slavery of a work camp. She frantically announced that I had trained under her husband to assist him in his medical practice, which was almost a complete fabrication. I’d been helping her treat minor ailments in the absence of my uncle, but I was not properly trained. Had she known what would happen next, I know she wouldn’t have spoken up. She didn’t know then that she was delivering me to the devil.
“What kind of girl is she?” Emil had asked my aunt, giving me a cool, assessing stare, like he was discussing a calf in the marketplace.
My aunt was only too eager to tell him, “She’s bright. She knows English—her father is French and her mother is British. Her mother taught her several languages—and the piano. She plays the piano like an angel.”
“An angel you say?” Emil had smiled. “How is her disposition? Is she skittish?”
“Skittish?” My aunt had asked. “Why no. She’s a very sensible young lady.”