“No!” she cried, scrambling to stand. “You sailed for America. You said—Gestapo? You’re Gestapo now?”
Paul Arnim reached for her, taking in her khaki trousers and wool sweater with the same startled expression she wore while absorbing his black uniform.
“All Germans were called home. I had to protect my family. My companies were seized and I was conscripted. I suspect it was their plan from the start.”
Caro caught notes of disillusionment in his voice. They gave her hope.
“But—” The car’s explosion in the next block drowned out her words. The sound was deafening. The glow in the sky almost beautiful with its yellow-orange tones.
She stepped closer to Arnim as smoke, dust, shouting, and footsteps filled the air around them. She chose to risk, and to trust him. “The Carlingue . . . Don’t let them take me. I’d rather take my chances with the Germans.”
“You can’t want that . . . What have you done?” When she didn’t reply, he pulled her into an alley steps behind him. “Through there. There is a small exit at the back. Run.”
“Thank you.” Caro squeezed his arm then dashed down the narrow corridor.
Noise was everywhere. Sirens. Shouting. Footsteps. Whistles.
Through the small archway at the end, she turned right and plowed straight into a French policeman. She spun back, but an officer approached from the other side as well.
One short young man, dressed in brown, grabbed her by the arm. “Pourquoi cours-tu? Que se passengers-t-il ici?”
Why are you running? What is happening here?
While trying to keep on her feet, Caro reached her free hand up under her sweater and pulled at the tiny thread. The papers dropped into her hand and she slid them, spreading them as flat as she could on the way down, into her trousers pocket.
“Rien. Je suis perdu,” she pleaded. “Un tel bruit. Je suis effrayée.”
He most likely wasn’t going to believe she was lost or that the loud noise frightened her, but she couldn’t think of anything else. Perhaps he would simply let her go. After all, they had bigger problems tonight—or soon would—than a lost woman.
The officer shrugged and loosened his grip, only to tighten it the next instant as Arnim raced through the alley’s opening behind her.
In fluent French, he shouted to the soldiers, “She is a German person of interest, leave her be.”
The officer let go. Caro sagged with relief. The street was clear to the river behind her. She still had plenty of time to make it across and to the rendezvous point.
Arnim nodded to her and she ran.
Within half a block, a piercing whistle blew and the scene changed again. German soldiers surrounded her from every direction. They pushed at her, shouting words she couldn’t understand. After a few moments of being jostled between the men, she saw a senior officer, tall and officious, push through the circle they’d created. He briefly looked her over, head to toe. Steel eyes. No emotion. He motioned for a young guard to hold her.
Caro pushed down her defiance and let only a very true fear show in her eyes.
“What is going on?” He spoke English to her. She kept her face blank.
He switched to German and said something more as he reached outside the circle and yanked Arnim within.
Arnim straightened as he addressed the man as Sturmbannführer Brunel. Caro sensed he was explaining his actions and pleading for the right to bring her into custody.
Two sharp words from Brunel silenced Arnim and Caro felt his will crumble as his body slumped. She had no idea what had been said, but its effect on Arnim was devastating.
One flash of silent communication and Caro knew they were both in trouble. Brunel caught the look and, without another word, unholstered his weapon and shot Paul Arnim between the eyes.
Caro gasped and the soldier released his grip for an instant. It was all she needed. She kicked at his shin and ran.
A loud “Halt!” and a shot split the night.
She didn’t stop. She ran faster and, as she rounded the corner, another shot rang out. She was thrown to the ground, her shoulder on fire.
Caro rolled onto her back the moment the factory blew. The ground trembled beneath every inch of her as she watched the sky light with a bright yellow followed by a deep, cloudy smoke that blocked the stars. Dust and rubble fell like rain. She curled onto her good shoulder to keep the debris from hitting her eyes. Through the pain, she felt her lungs empty with relief. They had succeeded.
With that, her mind turned to more personal matters and she frowned in the quiet space created by the chaos. It was as Reverend Foley said, she thought. Your life flashes before your eyes. But not quite like he said, either. For it wasn’t what she had done that flooded her mind as she watched her blood trickle into cracks between the cobblestones. It was what she had left undone. Never marrying George; never letting him in on what she could share of her secrets; and therefore never letting him all the way into her heart; never apologizing to her father for their distance, and for fighting him long after she should have stopped; never forgiving him for his humanity; never hugging Margaret so tight she’d never doubt her love.
Margaret.
She could see her sister so clearly. Her twin. Her better half.
Sturmbannführer Brunel loomed above her. With slow precision he brought his jackboot down on her injured shoulder, turning and pressing her whole body into the street as he crushed it to the ground. “What do we have here?” he said in English.
She didn’t react to his words. She kept her eyes shut tight.
“Qu’avons-nous ici?” He repeated his question in French.
Caro opened her eyes. She let her tears and every ounce of fear and pain pour out.
A spark of triumph passed through the man’s gaze. “French traitor.”
He gestured to a younger soldier who dug into Caro’s pockets and pulled out her papers. Without questioning her or noting it, he unrolled them by smoothing them flat against his knee.
“Nanette Bellefeuille. Paris. Rue Saint-Joseph.”
Caro pressed her lips shut, banishing English from her mind. When the torture comes, she told herself, cry out in French and no one will know. No one must ever know.
Brunel pointed to the soldier, stiff words matching stiff gestures. The young man, years younger than herself she guessed, grabbed her by her hurt arm and hauled her up. The pain sent bright shards of light through her vision. She couldn’t catch air.
He held her papers to his torch. She stopped herself. Lampe de poche. Not torch. Not flashlight. Lampe de poche. She recited the words again and again as the soldier dragged her to a car.
French words. French thoughts.
Shoved inside, she toppled across the leather back seat. The officer leaned in, his face lit by the high flames from the factory eight blocks away. “You knew Gruppenführer Arnim, I suspect.” He spoke a formal book-learned French. “He was soft. Questionable loyalties. Weak. Not so with me. You and I are going to get to know each other very well, Mademoiselle Bellefeuille.”
Nanette squeezed her eyes tight against more tears.