Page 18 of One More Betrayal

Fear and nausea churn in my belly. My heart gallops in my chest. I can’t get to the door without crossing him. Müller is an arm’s length from the path leading to the house.

I stay planted where I am, praying Oskar and his family don’t make a sound. “Are you looking for Captain Schmidt?” My face gives Müller no reason to believe his presence unsettles me.

“Major Müller. I was not expecting to see you here this morning.” The deep, soothing voice Johann used at the pond has been replaced with the hard edge of respect for a superior. The words are spoken in German.

I turn to see Johann walking towards us along the same path I took.

Müller lifts his arm in salute. “Heil, Hitler.”

Johann salutes without hesitation, but I can’t help but wonder at what cost to him. Is that why he disappears to the pond in the evenings? To pray for God’s forgiveness because of his involvement in the war? To give solace to his soul?

“I have arranged for the rest of the officers to meet us here so we can discuss our upcoming mission,” Müller says.

My throat tightens. Jacques is still inside the farmhouse, and I know how much the Germans’ presence in his house angers and pains him. There’s nothing I can do about it, though. Jacques and I aren’t supposed to be here. Our presence in the house, I now realise, is the only act of defiance Johann can afford.

The act of defiance Müller knows about.

The one he doesn’t know about is hidden in the barn.

“Madame D’Aboville, would you care to make us breakfast?” Müller’s rhetorical question is spoken in French. I’m not a houseguest. I’m the unpaid staff, the cook.

I nod my acquiescence to his command.

He instructs his driver to take the food into the house.

The soldier carries out Müller’s orders, and I follow him. While this is not how I had hoped to spend my day, there is a chance I’ll overhear something to share with Désirée later. If I’m going to ask for help with Oskar and his family, it will aid my case if I also have information that will benefit the local resistance group.

Once all the food supplies have been brought in, the soldier disappears, and I am left alone to cook breakfast. German recipes, translated into French, are included with the supplies.

I hear Jacques leave through the front door without a word from the occupants in the drawing room and without eating his breakfast first.

I survey the food I’ve prepared. There is enough to feed at least a dozen men. Would anyone notice if I hid some to give to Oskar, Margrit, and Sonja? They need it far more than the officers, and I doubt I’ll have a chance to steal some of it afterwards, even if there are leftovers.

I grab several bread rolls and whatever else I can fit on a large plate and hide it in the cupboard. No one will go looking in there; of that I am certain.

I take the food into the dining room and set up the table. I avoid making eye contact with anyone, and that includes Johann.

They sit down and I am dismissed. I return to the kitchen, but instead of tending to the dishes or cleaning the stovetop and counters, I stand by the door and listen. The men don’t bother whispering since they believe I cannot understand a word they say.

I mentally make note of everything said about an upcoming attack on one village and the plans to quickly erect a bridge to make the transportation of tanks into one region faster than it is currently. I silently curse I cannot journey to Paris to relay the information to Allaire. There is too much to tell him using our typical means of communication through coded messages.

I cannot even ask the new operator to transmit the message to Baker Street. It won’t be possible until he has a safe place to transmit from. And now that Oskar and his family are hidden in the barn, it is unlikely the operator will have a safe place to transmit from soon. But that would be true even if Oskar and his family were not here. It doesn’t matter if Johann is against the Nazi regime—he won’t sit idly by while a wireless operator is sending messages to London. Not if he believes that in by telling his commanding officer about the operator, it will ensure his mother’s and sister’s safety.

The officers’ conversation switches to a grand ball in Paris next month. A high-ranking officer will be in attendance with his wife. It will be quite the affair. Johann and several officers in the room will also be attending.

“Perhaps I should ask Frau D’Aboville to attend with me as my guest,” one of the officers says. I recognise his voice. The officer reminds me of a toad, only not half as pleasant. His tone is light with mocking condescension, and it makes my skin itch with disgust.

The other officers laugh.

“That is not a bad idea.” Müller’s words feel like a noose around my neck, cutting off the air to my lungs. “She’s certainly pretty enough to impress General von der Osten and his wife. She doesn’t understand German, so she’ll be what a woman should be: silent and nothing more than an adornment.”

More laughter from the officers.

“I disagree.” The gavel-hard tone of Johann’s response echoes through the room, and I am able to breathe once more. I’m not interested in escorting the toad to the event. He can go on his own.

“You disagree she’s pretty, or that a woman should be silent and nothing more than an adornment?”

I can see, in my mind, Müller peering down his arrogant nose at Johann.

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