Page 33 of Love in the Shadows

She took the jug of berry cordial out of the fridge and what remained of a tart they’d eaten for supper the previous evening. She reached for the glasses, glancing out of the kitchen window to check on Astrid, who was crouched on the grass and stroking a kitten that wasn’t Lakritze. A girl about the same size as her but with dark-brown hair kneeled on the grass next to her. Her heart raced in fear. Abandoning the snack, she ran outside.

“Astrid, darling,” she said, trying to curb her anxiety. It was ridiculous to feel this way about another child talking to her daughter. She glanced up at the windows of the house, to check if they were being watched, knowing that if either Müller or Nanny were to see them, they would have something to say about inappropriate fraternisation. When she couldn’t see anyone snooping, she breathed a sigh.

The girl stared at Johanna. Her eyes were unmistakeably like those of Fraulein Brun, as was the heart-shape of her face. She had a look that said she knew she would be in trouble for being here, and yet she made no move to leave. That boldness Johanna also admired in Fraulein Brun.

Astrid looked up, stroking the kitten that circled her legs, nuzzling her. “Look, Mutter, it’s Nancy’s. She’s called Cleopatra. She had another one called Leo, but he ran away.”

Johanna felt the anger rise within her at what Müller had done. She took a deep breath to calm herself, cleared her throat, and smiled. “You’re Fraulein Brun’s cousin?”

Nancy nodded. “I’m sorry, I’m not allowed to play with Astrid.”

“How come you’re not at school?”

“There’s no school on Wednesday.”

Johanna’s heart broke again, with the knowledge that this child spent so much time alone in the cottage. She should stop them playing together, but she didn’t want to and couldn’t bring herself to. “Would you like a glass of berry cordial?” she asked.

Nancy smiled and her eyes sparkled.

Johanna was reminded of Fraulein Brun, the way the Frenchwoman affected her, and how she wished to see her smile more often. How justifiably angry she’d been earlier, and how Johanna should do something to help her. She went back to the kitchen.

When she returned with two glasses of berry cordial and a small slice of tart for the girls, Astrid was pushing Nancy on the swing. She set their plates on a raised root of the oak tree and watched them drink together.

“Let’s eat the picnic,” Astrid said.

“Is that for me?” Nancy’s eyes widened. She seemed to hesitate, then perched on the root with Astrid at her side and ate quickly.

Johanna was doing the right thing for Astrid, and for Nancy; she knew it deep in her heart. As she pondered the fact that she didn’t care what her husband would say, or the others, she caught a flicker of something in the shadows of the archway.

The red tip of a cigarette being smoked.

Müller was watching her.

14.

ON THE EVENING BEFORE Good Friday, Fabienne was sitting in the bistro bar when Müller walked in at a little after eight p.m. Seeing him was enough to stop her mental rehearsal of the mission. Every muscle clenched as she watched him looking around the room. She leaned back behind a pillar and tugged her beret lower. There was always fire in his eyes, but this evening he seemed more edgy, like he was up to something or looking for someone; the keen eye of the hunter searching for his next prey.

The barman served him a brandy and he drank it in one slug. He tapped his glass on the bar, and it was refilled. He snatched the bottle and set it by his glass, dismissing the man with a swift lift of his chin. He glanced towards the four SS soldiers playing cards at one of the tables, then scanned slowly around the room. His gaze lingered on the two Frenchwomen who were sitting at a table entertaining three French Wehrmacht officers. He snarled at the Frenchmen drinking quietly in the corner of the room. They lowered their heads.

Fabienne’s heart pounded, partly because she knew if he saw her, he would come to her and if he came to her, he would want something from her she wasn’t under any circumstances going to give him. She would rather die than allow him to touch her. The other reason was because she wanted more than anything to kill him.

He filled his glass again and again.

With every drink he took, her anger burned hotter. He put on his hat and walked out of the bar without paying.

She waited a few seconds before stepping into the street after him. She pulled her jacket collar up tight around her neck and her beret deep over her head. She could be mistaken for a Frenchman at a distance and in the darkness, which would make her a little less interesting, though the street was empty of people to hide behind, so she was still vulnerable. A truck passed slowly, and she used it for cover to cross the road. She stayed close to the line of the buildings, making her less easy to spot if he turned around suddenly. When he stopped outside the butcher’s shop, she ducked into what was left of the archway that used to lead to the now-destroyed library building and watched him from across the road.

He tried to open the door and when it didn’t open, he stepped back and kicked it with the heel of his boot. A small movement in shadow at the back of the room stilled. He peered through the window, and slammed his hand on the glass. Receiving no response, he hammered repeatedly with a clenched fist. “I know you’re in there.”

Four soldiers walked towards him, heading in the direction of the bar. They raised their arm in salute as they passed. He returned the gesture and watched them move down the street before pounding the door again. “Open up, you fucking whore.”

Madame Guillaume lived alone since her husband had been conscripted into the Wehrmacht and sent to fight on the Eastern front. She was a kind, gentle woman who kept herself to herself. Fabienne now understood where the marks on her face that she’d seen in the church, and the swelling of her belly, had come from. She restrained herself from crossing the road to exact revenge. Hopefully he would get bored and go back to the bar or back to the house.

He kicked the door and cursed, “You’ll fucking pay for this.” He strode back towards the bar and Fabienne breathed a sigh of relief.

He stopped at the black car parked on the street and opened the boot, and her relief was displaced by horror as she watched him take out a bottle of what looked like schnaps. He removed the cork and plugged the glass neck with a rag, took out a metal bar, and slammed the boot shut. He strode back towards the shop.

Fabienne’s heart thundered. He was going to set fire to the place and there was nothing she could do to stop him. Was he going to beat Madame to death with the bar first?

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