“It’s better than the winter cold,” Sophie said, and to this there was a round of nodding agreement.
“I was thinking,” Vianne said, “that today would be a good day to—”
Before she could finish her thought, she heard the clatter of a motorcycle outside; moments later, footsteps—jackboots—thundered down the stone corridor.
Everyone went still.
The door to her classroom opened.
Von Richter walked into the room. As he approached Vianne, he removed his hat and tucked it beneath his armpit. “Madame,” he said. “Will you step into the corridor with me?”
Vianne nodded. “One moment, children,” she said. “Read quietly while I am gone.”
Von Richter took her by the arm—a painful, punishing grip—and led her into the stone courtyard outside her classroom. The sound of falling water from the mossy fountain gurgled nearby.
“I am here to ask about an acquaintance of yours. Henri Navarre.”
Vianne prayed she didn’t flinch. “Who, Herr Sturmbannführer?”
“Henri Navarre.”
“Ah. Oui. The hotelier.” She fisted her hands to still them.
“You are his friend?”
Vianne shook her head. “No, Herr Sturmbannführer. I know of him, merely. It is a small town.”
Von Richter gave her an assessing look. “If you are lying to me about something so simple, I will perhaps wonder what else you are lying to me about.”
“Herr Sturmbannführer, no—”
“You have been seen with him.” His breath smelled of beer and bacon, and his eyes were narrowed.
He’ll kill me, she thought for the first time. She’d been careful for so long, never antagonizing him or defying him, never making eye contact if she could help it. But in the last few weeks he had become volatile, impossible to predict.
“It is a small town, but—”
“He has been arrested for aiding the enemy, Madame.”
“Oh,” she said.
“I will speak to you more about this, Madame. In a small room with no windows. And believe me, I will get the truth out of you. I will find out if you are working with him.”
“Me?”
He tightened his hold so much she thought her bones might crack. “If I find that you knew anything about this, I will question your children … intensely … and then I will send you all to Fresnes Prison.”
“Don’t hurt them, I beg you.”
It was the first time she’d ever begged him for anything, and at the desperation in her voice, he went perfectly still. His breathing accelerated. And there it was, as plain as the blue of his eyes: arousal. For more than a year and a half, she had conducted herself with scrupulous care in his presence, dressing and acting like a little wren, never drawing his attention, never saying anything beyond yes or no, Herr Sturmbannführer. Now, in an instant, all of that was undone. She had revealed her weakness, and he had seen it. He knew how to hurt her now.
*
Hours later, Vianne was in a windowless room in the bowels of the town hall. She sat stiffly upright in her chair, her hands clamped around the armrests so tightly that her knuckles were white.
She had been here for a long time, alone, trying to decide what the best answers would be. How much did they know? What would they believe? Had Henri named her?
No. If they knew that she had forged documents and hidden Jewish children, she would already have been arrested.
Behind her, the door creaked open and then clicked shut.
“Madame Mauriac.”
She got to her feet.
Von Richter circled her slowly, his gaze intimate on her body. She was wearing a faded, often-repaired dress and no stockings, and Oxfords with wooden soles. Her hair, unwashed for two days, was covered by a gingham turban with a knot above her forehead. Her lipstick had run out long ago and so her lips were pale.
He came to a stop in front of her, too close, his hands clasped behind his back.
It took courage to tilt her chin upward, and when she did—when she looked in his ice-blue eyes—she knew she was in trouble.
“You were seen with Henri Navarre, walking in the square. He is suspected of working with the Maquis du Limousin, those cowards who live like animals in the woods and aided the enemy in Normandy.” At the same time as the Allied landing at Normandy, the Maquis had wreaked havoc across the country, cutting train lines, setting bombs, flooding canals. The Nazis were desperate to find and punish the partisans.
“I am barely acquainted with him, Herr Sturmbannführer; I know nothing of men who aid the enemy.”
“Are you making a fool of me, Madame?”
She shook her head.
He wanted to hit her. She could see it in his blue eyes: an ugly, sick desire. It had been planted when she’d begged him for something and now she had no idea how to eradicate it.
He reached out and grazed a finger along her jaw. She flinched. “Are you truly so innocent?”
“Herr Sturmbannführer, you have lived in my home for eighteen months. You see me every day. I feed my children and work in my garden and teach at the orphanage. I am hardly aiding the Allies.”
His fingertips caressed her mouth, forcing her lips to part slightly. “If I find out that you are lying to me, I will hurt you, Madame. And I will enjoy it.” He let his hand fall away. “But if you tell the truth—now—I will spare you. And your children.”
She shivered at the thought of his finding out that he had been living all this time with a Jewish child. It would make a fool of him.
“I would never lie to you, Herr Sturmbannführer. You must know that.”
“Here’s what I know,” he said, leaning closer, whispering in her ear, “I hope you are lying to me, Madame.”
He drew back.
“You are scared,” he said, smiling.
“I have nothing to be afraid of,” she said, unable to get much volume in her voice.
“We shall see if that is true. For now, Madame, go home. And pray I do not discover that you have lied to me.”