Poitiers, Occupied France, 1944
The door slams open quickly, but instead of Matthias coming with soup, it's Kaspar. His eyes are wide and panicked, flickering across the room with urgency.
"The Nazis are coming," he explains breathlessly, "Matthias is hiding. You must hurry and play along."
There's no time to ask what he's doing here or where the others are. "French?" I ask, instantly at attention.
"Yes," he says, "Come." I swing my legs over the side of the bed, pushing myself up. Kaspar wraps an arm around me to support my shoulders and arms, helping me down the stairs.
"I must look like a mess," I laugh humorlessly, self-consciously attempting to fix my hair.
"We will tell them the truth," Kaspar says, "You are sick. We'll just twist it around a bit." A sharp pounding at the door spikes my heartbeat. They are here.
"I'll be right there!" Kaspar calls, gently lowering me into a kitchen chair. He quickly checks to make sure Matthias's soup isn't burning then opens the door.
Two Nazi officers stand in the doorway, stiff but polite in their own sick manner. "Good afternoon, Monsieur," the tall one says.
"Good afternoon, officers," Kaspar answers in nervous French, "What's this about?" I didn't even know Kaspar knew much French.
"Have you seen this man?" The shorter Nazi raises a photograph of Matthias. He looks strikingly young in the photo, hair freshly cut and eyes full of vigor.
"No," Kaspar shakes his head, "My wife is ill. I've been busy taking care of her." His French is not perfect, but the Nazis don't know the difference.
"My love, who is at the door?" I play along, calling out sweetly.
"We need to take a look around," the short Nazi continues, practically pushing past Kaspar to get inside. He obliges anyway, having observed firsthand the bowing of the French to the Nazis.
"Bonjour, Monsieurs," I greet, adding a fake cough for effect, "My apologies for not being in good health for your visit."
"Oh please, Madame," the taller officer insists charmingly, "If you did not have a husband already, I would say you look beautiful."
"You are too charming, Monsieur. Please, don't let me distract you," I watch as Kaspar anxiously stirs the soup on the stove. He takes it off the heat and searches for a bowl in the cabinets.
"Is there anyone else in the house?" The short officer questions sharply, all business.
"No," Kaspar says, pouring my soup into a wooden bowl and placing it in front of me.
"Unless you count the mice," I joke, my polite laughter morphing into fake coughing. Perhaps I should have gone into theater like Oliver.
The tall officer disappears into the other room and Kaspar leans into my ear. "As soon as I'm upstairs," he whispers in German, pressing a cold metal blade into my palm. I curl my fingers around it and nod, tucking it into my sleeve.
"Why don't you go on upstairs and help the officer find whatever he's looking for?" I ask sweetly, pressing a kiss to Kaspar's cheek. He smiles.
"Of course, ma chérie," he replies, following the short Nazi upstairs. As soon as he disappears up the stairs, I sip a spoonful of soup and clear my throat.
"What is your name, Officer?" I ask flirtatiously, batting my eyelashes as he returns to the room.
"Hübermann," he says with a charming smile, "Johann Hübermann. And you?"
"Celeste Bélanger," I lie smoothly. It is one of many false identities I have used.
"Celeste, I must say, you are simply breathtaking," the Nazi strides close to me. I stand up instinctively to draw him in, flickering my gaze between his eyes and his lips. Rotten Nazi bastards, they are- easily splitting up a fake marriage while my fake husband is just upstairs.
Johann pulls me close, his arm snaking around my waist. His breath is hot on my face and smells faintly of onions. How lovely.
"I want to kiss you, Madame," he says softly, meeting my gaze. The hilt of the knife is warming in my palm.
I lean in to whisper in his ear. "Remember my face, Johann Hübermann," I hiss, swiftly pulling out the knife and dragging it across his throat. The blade cuts deep into the skin, Johann's icy blue eyes wide with shock.
He collapses to the floor with a thud at my feet, and the following gunshot from upstairs eases my nerves slightly. A paintbrush stroke of blood surrounds his throat, seeping dark and crimson from the skin.
The first Nazi I killed was out of rage, a pang of guilt and regret tugging at me afterwards. The second came a little more easily. Now, I grieve only for the loss of life, not the actual person. Johann Hübermann probably had a clueless wife and children at home and was willing to kiss a married woman- or at least who he thought was a married woman. Who knows how many Jews or resisters he could have killed if not for me?
Kaspar comes creeping down the staircase, wiping sweat from his forehead. "I still find it odd," he says to me in German, "I know they are the enemy, but I cannot help feeling like it is wrong."
"You made the right decision," I reply, wiping the blade of my knife on the Nazi's jacket, "These men are more akin to monsters."
"I know that better than anybody," Kaspar shifts his gaze, "Are you strong enough to help with the bodies?"
I shake my head, acknowledging my limits. "I will clean the blood," I offer instead, "Matthias can help you with the Nazis." Kaspar nods, turning away to head upstairs in search of what I assume is Matthias's hiding spot. "I didn't know you knew French," I call after him.
He stops in his tracks, glancing over his shoulder at me. "I do not know enough to qualify as fluent," he says, "Unimportant." As always, a man of few words. He disappears above, leaving me to clean the coppery stench of blood.
I wet a cloth and scrub the floors clean, scraping crimson from beneath my fingernails. After a few minutes, Matthias and Kaspar emerge from upstairs, carrying the short Nazi by his hands and feet. "I know I shouldn't speak ill of the dead, but that boche is plumper than a cow while the rest of France is withering away," I remark, wringing out the washcloth in the sink and wiping the floor again. Even Kaspar, who is probably the strongest of us all, cannot carry him alone.
Kaspar nods solemnly while Matthias grimaces and doesn't say a word. They carry the body outside and I climb up the stairs to clean the blood left behind. My soup is probably cold my now anyway.
As I'm scrubbing away the last of the crimson stains, the creak of a floorboard makes me look up. "Matthias," I breathe in relief, "You should not sneak up on me like that."
"Sorry," he mutters, "Look, I wanted to ask you a question."
"Ask away," I say, wiping my hands off and standing up.
"Do you enjoy killing them?"
The question throws me for a loop. Of the many things I expected to be asked, that was not one of them. "I mourn the loss of life," I answer slowly, choosing each word carefully, "but not the loss of the enemy. I may not be a soldier, but I am fighting in the war."
"You did not hesitate to kill," Matthias continues, "You slit his throat but act as though nothing happened."
"Do not mistake your old loyalty for morality, Matthias," I say darkly, not so pleased with his accusations, "I am no more of a monster than you are. How many helpless Jews or French have you killed without batting an eyelash because it was your duty?" He remains silent, his jaw clenched and his hard gaze boring into my eyes. "As a citizen of France it is my duty to protect those who cannot protect themselves. Do not make me regret my begging for your survival."
Matthias scowls and turns away, headed down the staircase and away from me. I have been with this group hardly a couple weeks, but already my ties are severed with many. However, it is they who need me, not the other way around. The men will tolerate me, no matter how cold and immoral they can be, until I complete their mission.
The future of France depends on it.
YOU ARE READING
Oaths of Blood and Wine
Historical Fiction"Funny, a little word like hope, when good men died young and bloody." *** Nazi-Occupied France is a country divided. World War II rages on, but the French must sit idly by as the Germans take their food, their homes, and their freedom. Trust is a...
