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The door hinges squeaked, and I paused my struggles. The beam of a flashlight swept the room, caught my embarrassing position, and the owner of the torch let out a surprised grunt.
Is it the captain? Or Masselin? My heart jumped with hope.
A silhouette approached and suddenly my chair slammed back down onto all four legs.
“Well, well, what have we here? There is no napping for traitorous spies.”
The jarred landing served to increase the pounding in my head, and I closed my eyes to stave off a wave of nausea.
“Look at me!” he shouted.
Unhappily, I recognized the voice, realized what it meant, and mentally kicked myself for not provoking Müller into shooting me when I had the chance. My lashes opened to find my nemesis returned. He held the flashlight upward, throwing his face into an eerie relief. The room spun and I couldn’t focus.
“You are the Black Widow! I know it.”
“Nein,” I whispered, hanging my head to stop the spinning.
“Ja! You are the Black Widow.”
“Nein.”
“Ja! You have delivered messages to the enemy.”
“Nein!”
“Schwarze Witwe!” Black Widow. He spit out the words like they left a nasty taste in his mouth. “Where have you hidden the radio you used to do so?”
“What?” Radio? I have no idea what he’s talking about. I’d done many things for my government, but handling a radio was not one of them. I had never been trained to do so. Radio operators were considered one of the most dangerous positions in the spy community. They moved around on a regular basis because it didn’t take long for the enemy to zone in on their position. Some of our best intelligence came from these brave men and women, and we’d lost so many of them.
“Did you leave it with Masselin’s grandmother?”
My head shot up at that, but before I could answer, the whirling overwhelmed me. I leaned forward and vomited. To my regret, Lars had quick reflexes and jumped back in time. Most of the mess ended up on my skirt and the floor.
“Du Schwein!” You pig! He backhanded me.
It felt like my eye would explode from the socket, and I screamed. My head flopped against the chair like a ragdoll, and I went inert, hoping against hope that he’d leave me alone if he thought I’d passed out. I should have known better. The scent of smoke was my only warning. A searing pain pierced my shoulder where he held his cigarette against the bared flesh.
Tears flooded my eyes. I shrieked and kicked with all my might. My aim was off and I hit him in the upper thigh instead of the sensitive manly parts. He recoiled and dropped the cigarette; it landed in my lap and I jiggled my legs until it rolled off onto the floor.
“You are the woman! You are the spy they are looking for! I know it!” He came at me, his outstretched hands going for my throat, but I got my knees up in time to kick at his chest. Delivering a shot with my heel to his sternum, it held him off, but I was only able to push him back a few steps, and his next attack disconcerted me. Instead of going for my throat like before, he grabbed my left foot and tried to wrench the boot off. The laces were too tight, and all he achieved was to drag me and the heavy chair halfway across the room. The bindings tore into my flesh. With one arm he held my foot while the other reached down and withdrew a blade.
Kicking and squirming, I doubled my efforts to get away, but it only took a moment for the knife to slice through the laces. He stumbled backwards as the shoe tore free. I tried to push myself away, but the damn chair was too heavy, and he was upon me before I’d gotten half a meter. He chopped at the laces and flung the other boot across the room, then turned to me. Our heavy breathing filled the chamber and hammered in my ears. In the melee, Lars had dropped the flashlight, which rolled across the floor. It now shone upon the wall, its wavering beam delivering a macabre appearance to our life-and-death struggle, like something you’d see in an old horror film.
His silhouette with the knife rose above me. “Treacherous spy, confess! Tell me you are the Black Widow.”
“Nein, nein!” My voice cracked and my chest heaved with exertion.
“Das ist genug.” That is enough; the captain’s stern command broke through our fight.
Lars didn’t move, and the lighting was such that I couldn’t see his face, but his stance hesitated, as though debating whether or not to heed his superior officer’s demand.
“Corporal!” Müller barked.
The blade lowered. “It is her. I know it.”
“Get out.”
Lars scooped up his flashlight and the door slammed behind him.
Müller surveyed the room and audibly sighed as he placed the lantern on the table and pulled it close, then he righted the chair that had been knocked down and sat across from me. His nose wrinkled with distaste. “You’ve been ill.”
The sour stench of sickness clung to me. He grabbed the lantern and held it between us, and I flinched away from the light exposing the battered cheek. His thumb gently stroked the bruise, and I winced.
The captain sucked in a breath. “Was ist das?” What is this? He pointed to the still-stinging burn.
Our eyes met, and I bit my lips to keep from collapsing into a sobbing muddle.
“Private,” he called over his shoulder.
The door opened.
“Send in the medic.”
“He’s not here, sir.”
The officer’s gaze swung back to me. “Then bring me an aid kit. Fill a clean sock with snow and bring it here. Also, get me a blanket.”
We waited in silence for the soldier to carry out his orders.
He moved with slow deliberation as he bandaged the burn mark. I cringed away when he held the snow-filled sock against my bruised cheek.
“Don’t move away. I promise it will help.”
I nodded but couldn’t help flinching back when he put it on again.
He sighed and sat back, scrutinizing me. “I’m going to cut your arm free so you can hold this yourself.”
He freed my left hand and handed me the sock. I alternated holding it on my cheek and the knot on the back of my head. After the snow melted, I tossed the sopping cloth onto the table.
“Ilse, I have a blanket for you.” He held it up. “I want you to remove your skirt so it can be cleaned. Do you think you can do so with one hand?”
I gulped. The smell was revolting but the idea of removing any more of my clothes seemed even more repellant.
“I can do it for you if you prefer.”
It would have been the perfect opportunity to reengage our flirtation from earlier, but the attack had sucked the inclination out of me, and I simply couldn’t muster up the energy to be alluring. “Nein. I’ll do it,” I said with resignation. “Can you turn around?”
“I am afraid not. You have proven yourself a force to be reckoned with, even with two hands tied down.” I wasn’t sure how much of the battle with Lars he’d witnessed, but something had forced his wariness of me to return.
Wriggling in a silly half-crouched stance, along with the discomfort of having the captain watching, I was able to drop the skirt to my feet, revealing the thin slip beneath. I kicked it aside and snatched the blanket from him, quickly wrapping it around my legs as best as I could, and returned to my seat.
Müller retied the rope around my wrist before he picked up the dark wad and passed it to the private. I couldn’t make out the entire conversation, but I did hear the word wash and thought perhaps the captain indeed planned to have it cleaned—after it had been searched for secret pockets, no doubt.
“Now, fräulein, let’s get back to this elusive sister of yours. I’ve been trying to track down anyone by that name, and so far ... nothing.”
“Do you think she’s dead, or has been captured?”
“I’m beginning to doubt her existence at all,” he grumbled.
“The photograph?”
“A photo is easy to come by. Especially from a woman as capable as yourself.”
I didn’t respond. It seemed we’d returned to square one—back to the interrogation.
“Which begs the question ... who are you and what are you doing here?”
“In other words, am I the Black Widow?”
“Contrary to our friend Lars’ theory, I don’t believe you are the Black Widow. So, Ilse, who are you?” He removed a flask from an inner pocket, twisted off the cap, and took a swig. I watched his Adam’s apple bobble as he swallowed. He held the metal canteen toward me.
“Was ist das?” What is that?
“Schnapps.”
The cheap booze blazed a trail down my throat, landing hard on my empty stomach. It wasn’t long before its warmth spread outward, dimming the pain and providing an unexpected relaxation of my limbs. It also seemed to bring my mind into sharper focus.
“It will go much easier if you just tell me the truth.”
“If you don’t believe my story, why don’t you turn me over to the Gestapo?”
“Do you wish me to do so?”
“Of course not, but neither do I wish to be fodder for that sadistic animal,” I snapped.
“Trust me, Lars is nothing compared to what the Gestapo will do to you,” he stated in a matter-of-fact tone.
Even though I’d been warned by my Resistance friends, I wasn’t so sure. The Gestapo would handle me with cold calculation. For some reason, I enraged Lars. I knew if he had another chance to come at me ... I began to wonder if the captain was using Lars to play a little game my training operative referred to as the hot/cold routine to break me down and force a confession. It was an intimidation tactic—first send in a “friendly” interrogator to create a rapport, then send in a “cruel” interrogator to instill fear. The team would swap in and out until the suspect confessed to one or the other.
His jaw relaxed and his mouth softened. “Now, you can trust me. Just tell me who you are.”
“I told you, my name is Ilse Gersbach. Meine Schwester, Helga, was teaching down near Strasbourg. She has gone missing. We have not heard from her in months. My mother asked me to go look for her.” I fell back on my training—stick to the story, deny all other allegations.
“You see, that is where I have a problem. Your mother might have already lost one daughter. Would she place another into the hands of fate, possibly losing both her little girls in the process? What mother would purposely put her child into such a situation?”
“As you said, I am resourceful. Always have been. Mother was distraught. I insisted I could find Helga. Maybe you could say I didn’t really give her a choice. So, she filled my pockets with money and gave me her blessing. Is that so difficult to believe? That the hope of finding her youngest child is worth the risk?”
He regarded me and we sat in a silent staring contest.
“Tell me about your childhood.” He made a show out of retrieving and lighting a cigarette. Only this time he didn’t offer one to me. “Where were you born?”
“Stuttgart.”
“Your French was learned ...”
“My grandparents lived in Lausanne, Switzerland. We visited often. It is where I learned to speak French.” Not true, but the months I’d spent at finishing school gave me enough knowledge of the area to provide relatively accurate information should we delve deeper.
“Our friend Lars is under the impression you learned to speak French in Paris.”
I didn’t bat an eyelash. “He is misinformed.”
“And what about English? Where did you learn your English?” He spoke the question in English.
When he switched languages, I could feel the change and did my best to give him a blank look. It was that way every time languages switched. Some of my friends explained that they could switch between different languages as easily as a sailboat gliding through water. For me the change was more abrupt, like changing a record on the turntable. The drop, the click, and then the needle engaged. This could be a disadvantage when trying to follow multiple languages at once. However, it came in handy during interrogations when my questioner was trying to force a slipup.
“Englisch? Ich spreche nicht Englisch.” I don’t speak English.
He blew a cloud of smoke in my face. “Tell me a fact, Ilse.”
“Pardon?”
“Tell me a truth, about yourself.”
My stomach burbled and I said the first thing that popped into my head. “I despise tapioca.”
This brought a half smile to the captain’s face. “I believe you have told me the truth.” He stubbed out the cigarette on the boot of his heel and rose. “We aren’t finished. Private.”
The private entered. “Sir?”
“Wait with the lady. Do not let the corporal in the room.”
“Yes, sir.”
He left the lantern behind and the private at the door, rifle at the ready. Upon his return, he ordered the private to stand guard in the hallway. He dragged the table in front of me and placed a wineglass filled with water and bits of melting snow floating on the top like miniature icebergs.
“I’m going to tie your feet to the legs, then release your hands.”
“Is that really necessary, captain? I did not attack you before when you released me.”
“It is necessary. If you try something, the private has orders to shoot you dead. Do you understand?”
Once my ankles were tied to the legs, he untied my hands. I scooped up the glass and drank ravenously. The cold water sluiced down my raw throat, providing much-needed relief against the strain from shouting at Lars. He pulled a packet of field ration crackers out of his front pocket and laid them within reach. They were dry and stale, and I dipped them in the water before swallowing them. It was relief to put something on my empty stomach. I considered throwing the glass at his head but realized it would be foolish. The private, who hadn’t thought twice about bashing me with the butt of his gun, would surely follow orders to put an unremorseful end to me.
Müller patiently smoked while he waited for me to finish, then he retied the bindings and departed. He left the lantern behind but didn’t see fit to remove the ropes around my ankles.
Even with a little bit of food in my stomach, my energy had been sapped. I rested my aching head on the table. My eyes drifted shut, and I wondered what horror was in store next. I skimmed the edge of sleep; strange dreams of running through thick mud swirled around me.
