Friday, June 16, 1944, Near Basseneville, Normandy, France
Genevieve watched as Peter poured the last bucket of water into the trough. “You’re going to spoil me,” she said.
Even though it was dark, she knew he was smiling. She was glad she couldn’t see it; she often had trouble breathing when she saw his smile and the way it lit up his eyes.
“I don’t think you’re in danger of being spoiled anytime soon. Not after I’ve dragged you halfway across France.” He set the bucket on the ground and ran a hand through his thick brown hair. “To be honest, I’ve lost track of how far we’ve come.”
“One hundred eighty kilometers by truck and cart from Calais to Rouen. One hundred kilometers on foot since then.”
Peter nodded slowly. He was American and kept track of distances in miles. She guessed he was doing the conversions in his head. “I’d say the least I can do is get you a bath. I’d build you a fire, but that might attract too much attention.”
Genevieve stared at the water and looked forward to being clean again. They’d been traveling on foot for a week, and she’d never felt so dusty, grimy, and sweaty. She’d complained about being dirty when the two of them arrived at the derelict barn a half hour ago, but she hadn’t meant for Peter to wash the trough out and fill it for her. When she’d offered to help, he’d insisted on doing it himself.
“How are your blisters?” he asked.
“About the same.”
“Hmm.” Peter came over to where she was sitting and knelt down to look at her feet the best he could in the poor lighting. “Maybe it’s time to steal another car.”
Genevieve laughed. “The last time I was in a car with you, I barely made it out alive.”
“Not because of my driving though, right?” Peter grinned at her again.
“No, not because of your driving.”
Peter straightened. “I’m a completely safe driver when I’m not worried about getting shot or blown up. But stealing a car’s probably a bad idea anyway. Some P-47 would see us driving along in a Wehrmacht jeep and shoot us to pieces. I guess we’ll have to keep walking.” Peter dug through a bag and handed her an old piece of bread. “Breakfast?”
Genevieve took the bread. “Aren’t you going to eat?”
“I think I’ll save it for a midpatrol snack.”
“Peter, I haven’t seen you eat your last two midpatrol snacks.” Conversations like this were becoming a morning ritual. Peter always gave her a larger portion of the food they’d taken with them or scrounged along the way then put some of his back when he thought she wasn’t looking. “You’ve walked just as far as I have—you need to eat something.”
“But you’ve had a rough couple of weeks.”
“So have you.” She heard her voice crack as she remembered one recent event in particular. “And when your brother died, you didn’t exactly take it easy.”
Peter sat next to her and reached for her hand. “That was different. I wasn’t there—just heard about it on the radio.” Peter’s older brother died at Pearl Harbor, and Peter had joined the US Army the next day. Genevieve’s older brother had died eleven days ago. She’d witnessed his last breath, and then she’d left Calais with Peter, fleeing the Gestapo, trying to make it to the new front in Normandy. Peter ran his thumb over her fingers. “Besides, there aren’t any recruiting stations around here. Not that they’d take you anyway.”
“No, I doubt they’re desperate enough to enlist skinny French girls.”
“You could probably teach most new recruits a thing or two about making a bomb though.” Peter reached for their bags. “Can I borrow your mirror?”
“Of course.”
“Thanks. I’m going to backtrack to that creek we passed and try to get rid of this.” He fingered his dark beard, scratching the skin underneath. “I wonder if the bruises will be gone when I get all the hair off.”
Genevieve could pick out faded purple and yellow bruises all along Peter’s arms, neck, and face. She was sure the bruises the Gestapo left on his cheeks and chin would be equally visible after he shaved.
Peter pulled out his razor, her mirror, and half of their soap, placing the items in his pocket. Then he reached for her Webley & Scott pistol and made sure it was still loaded. It had been her neighbor’s weapon, brought to France as part of an SOE supply drop.
“I haven’t emptied it, Peter.”
She caught a hint of mischief on his face. “Good. A barn like this is bound to have a few rats in it somewhere. You can always shoot them if they start bothering you.”
Genevieve shuddered as she looked around the old barn. She hated rodents, and the gaps between the barn’s wooden boards were large enough to invite a small army of them to take up residence. The cracks in the wall were so wide she could make out the ruins of the home that had once stood nearby, likely destroyed at the beginning of the war. Her quick glance around the barn didn’t reveal any animals, but she knew rodents weren’t what Peter was really worried about. They were still in Nazi territory, and the Gestapo was tracking them.
Peter checked his pistol, a stolen German model, then slipped it back into its holster. He stood and opened the barn door. “See you at daybreak. Enjoy your bath.”
“If I fall asleep before you get back, you will wake me at noon this time, won’t you?” Since leaving Rouen, they’d traveled by night and slept during the day. While one slept, the other was on guard duty. Peter always gave her the first sleeping shift, and he never woke her at midday like he was supposed to. Yet he always made her promise to wake him the second the sun set so they could begin their nightly trek on time.
“Maybe.”
That was Peter’s way of saying he’d wake her if she was having a nightmare, which happened often enough—for both of them. It wasn’t the answer she was looking for, but she was too tired to argue. Peter slid the barn door shut, leaving her alone with her bath. I should have packed an alarm clock. But even if she had, Peter would probably turn it off.
Three minutes into the bath, she caught herself singing an aria from Carmen. She stopped as soon as she realized what she was doing and chastised herself for being so careless. Refugees fleeing the Gestapo are supposed to be invisible and silent.
A smile replaced the song. Genevieve only sang when she was happy, and that morning, the singing had slipped out unconsciously, just as it had every day for the past week. Even though she was homeless and wanted by the Nazis, Genevieve was content. Being clean again was part of it, but she gave Peter most of the credit. It still surprised her, how he made her feel. She’d met him only a few weeks ago when he’d been assigned to work with her brother to investigate three suspicious intelligence sources for the Allies. Peter hadn’t been the first good-looking commando to work with Jacques, but he had been the first who’d offered to help with laundry.
Genevieve pulled herself out of the cold bathwater and used her blanket to dry her skin. When she was dressed, she strung a rope between several old posts and hung her blanket over it. Then she unpacked the extra clothing from their bags and washed it all in the bathwater. They planned to stay until nightfall, so the clothes would have time to dry. There was little soap, the water was cold, and the lack of light meant she couldn’t see very well, but the promise of clean clothes was sufficient motivation for her to do what she could.
As she finished hanging Peter’s spare pants, she caught herself singing again and stopped, shaking her head as if the motion might somehow get the tune out of her head. She heard someone outside and glanced through a hole in the east wall, assuming Peter was early. She expected to hear him call out to make sure she was dressed, but instead, she heard several pairs of footsteps.
Genevieve turned around as the barn door slid open. She felt her heart plummet and glanced at her pistol, still next to the trough. It was too far away.
“Bonjour, Mademoiselle Olivier; it’s such a pleasure to see you again.” The deep, menacing voice belonged to Standartenführer Tschirner, the Gestapo chief of Calais. He’d questioned her before, but she’d been using an alias then. She wasn’t sure how he knew her real name but hoped it wasn’t because he’d tortured her neighbors.
With Tschirner were four SS stormtroopers in shiny black boots and immaculate uniforms. One of them held a lantern, and in that light, Genevieve recognized two faces from her time in Gestapo prison, and from her nightmares. Sturmmann Weiss was tall and muscular, with suntanned skin and coarse blond hair. He stood at Tschirner’s side with his arms folded and gave her an unpleasant grin. The second man, Sturmmann Siebert, was even larger. He walked to her side, towering over her petite frame, and grabbed her arm in a crushing grip.
Tschirner nodded his approval. “I must admit, mademoiselle, I am disappointed to find you all alone. Where is Lieutenant Eddy?”
Genevieve didn’t answer. The standartenführer had a talent for scaring her tongue into immobility, but she was grateful for his question. If Tschirner was asking about Peter, it meant he and his men hadn’t already found and killed him. Tschirner kicked over the two bags Genevieve and Peter were using and riffled through the contents. The bags held little—they were running out of food, and their extra clothes hung on the clothesline. Tschirner bent down, picked up the three framed pictures Genevieve had brought from home, and held them up to the light of the lantern. He spent only a second on her parents’ wedding portrait and the family picture from almost nineteen years ago. But he studied the photograph of her brother and sister-in-law then showed it to Weiss.
Weiss nodded. “That’s him.”
“Where is this man?” Tschirner held the picture so Genevieve could see it, his finger pointing at the image of her brother.
Genevieve was still too frightened to speak. Tschirner glanced at her guard. “Sturmmann Siebert, I believe she needs her tongue loosened.” Before the words registered, Genevieve found herself hurtling toward the wall. She put her hands up to shield her face just before she crashed into the weather-beaten wood boards and collapsed to the floor in pain. The graying boards were old, but they were still rough and hard. Her hands and arms stung where small splinters of wood pierced her skin. Her elbow, ribs, and hip throbbed from the impact.
Tschirner gazed down at her without emotion. She looked back at him, hoping the wet hair and bits of old hay sticking to her face obscured her fear. “Where is he?” he said, pointing again at the picture.
Her voice cracked as she answered—a combination of grief, pain, and fear. “He died.”
“When?”
“June 5.”
“What a shame. He didn’t live to see the Allies make their pitiful invasion attempt,” Tschirner said with a sneer. “Who is the woman with him?”
“His wife; she’s also dead.”
“When?”
“1941.” The date was permanently engraved in Genevieve’s mind, but she didn’t think Tschirner needed to hear specifics.
“And these are your parents?” He pointed to the family picture. Genevieve nodded, feeling a new jolt of pain run through the left side of her body as she moved. That side had hit the wall the hardest. She held the bottom of her rib cage with her forearm to try to hold back the spread of pain. “And are they also dead, mademoiselle?”
“Yes.” Her mother had died when she was three, her father when she was thirteen.
“Why, Mademoiselle Olivier, you appear to be completely alone in this world. How pathetic.” Tschirner tossed all three pictures across the barn. The glass shattered, and Genevieve automatically moved to retrieve them. She moved only an inch before Siebert seized her arms and jerked her to her feet. She gasped in pain when the sudden movement triggered a new wave of physical agony.
Another SS guard handed a pile of papers to Tschirner. He leafed through them; they were the false identity papers Genevieve and Peter were carrying. “Mademoiselle Olivier, you are under arrest for traveling with forged papers and leaving Calais without permission. I could have you executed for such behavior.” He stepped forward and studied her, his face within inches of her own. She was frightened, but she knew there were worse things than execution.
“I’ll make a deal with you. Cooperate with me, and I’ll have you assigned to a work camp instead of the gallows. Where is Lieutenant Eddy?” he asked.
“He left.”
“Yes, but when will he return?” As Tschirner questioned her, he ran his fingers across her forehead, moving her hair so he could see her face better. She turned away, feeling suddenly nauseated as he touched her skin.
“He’s not coming back.” As she said it, part of her hoped it was true. Returning would mean capture, but for now, Peter was safe. Surely he’d see the lantern light through the cracks in the wall and escape. She would never see him again, but at least he would be free.
Tschirner laughed. His laughter reminded Genevieve of a sleet storm, icy and cold. “Don’t lie to me, mademoiselle. I don’t for one minute believe he has permanently abandoned you. Where did he go? To get more food? To make contact with the Resistance?”
“He’s not coming back,” she said again. “We split up, and we’re to meet again later, in Basseneville.”
Tschirner struck her with the back of his hand. Her cheek stung from the force behind it, and she again felt a burst of pain screaming up and down her body. “How many times will you make me repeat myself? No more lies, mademoiselle.” Genevieve looked down, disappointed that he hadn’t believed her. Through the cracks in the barn wall, she could see the top of the rising sun. She worried that the sunlight would hide the lantern’s glow, Peter’s only clue that something was wrong. He’d walk into a trap unless she quickly convinced Tschirner to leave and catch Peter somewhere else. “When is he coming back? Surely he is coming back, or you wouldn’t have left wet clothes out to dry.”
The clothes, of course. Genevieve changed her strategy. “Noon.” She hoped Tschirner and his men would let their guard down if they thought they had until midday.
Tschirner struck the other side of her face with similar results. “I can see it in your eyes when you lie. When is he coming back?”
Genevieve knew she couldn’t fool him, so she kept silent and braced herself for Tschirner’s next strike. It never came. Instead, Siebert flung her into the wall so suddenly she didn’t have time to move her feet or protect her head. She hit the wall face-first. Crumpled in a heap, miserable and dizzy, she looked up at Tschirner. Will it hurt anything to tell the truth? She gazed through the missing boards on the east side of the old barn and saw the sun through the cracks. “He’s already late,” she whispered.
* * *
Peter lay underneath a clump of dry bushes, watching the barn. He’d returned early from his bath but not in time to prevent the men from walking into the barn. He’d seen them encircle the dilapidated outbuilding, leaving one man hidden in the ruins of the nearby home and three others in the vegetation on the property’s perimeter. In the dark, he’d been unable to identify any of the men, but he saw enough to suspect the Gestapo.
His initial plan had been to rush in and shoot as many men as possible before he was killed, but he quickly realized that following his instincts might prove his love for Genevieve but wouldn’t secure her freedom. He watched the four sentries, keeping track of their positions, thinking he could take them out one by one. That would still leave five men inside, but Peter thought he might prevail if he had surprise on his side.
Peter headed for a Gestapo man hidden by a large tree to the north of the barn. As he drew closer, the sun broke over the horizon and he was forced to slow his pace. He’d just unsheathed his knife, yards away from the first sentry, when a dark figure stepped outside the barn, lifted his arm, and fired a single shot into the air. Peter paused, certain he’d heard a signal but unsure of what it meant. He waited a few tense moments then understood when he heard the sound of an automobile driving down the dirt road and recognized Tschirner’s black Mercedes-Benz.
Three men left the barn, bringing Genevieve with them. Peter had counted five men entering the barn, and one had exited to signal the car, so he assumed they were leaving the last man as a guard. Three of them got into the car, forcing Genevieve in with them. A fourth began walking directly toward Peter. Peter wondered if he’d been spotted, but the sentry he’d been about to kill moved a few feet from the tree to meet the other Gestapo man.
“The American was supposed to be here at dawn. Tschirner wants us to wait another hour to see if he shows up then report back.” Peter’s limited German picked out the instructions. He watched the messenger move on to the next sentry, and he considered his options. He could wait and follow the five men Tschirner was leaving, or he could shoot the driver of the car and try to pick the remaining men off. There were plenty of shadows to hide in. If he took the guard nearest him out with a knife and then shot the driver, he would have time to move before anyone closed in on the source of the single gunshot.
Peter was about to attempt the latter when he felt the distinct impression that he should wait. Waiting wasn’t what he wanted to do, so he ignored the feeling and crept toward the guard. Then he felt it again. It had been a long time since he’d had an impression that strong.
Genevieve’s eyes fluttered open, and she tried to jerk into a sitting position. A handcuff binding her right wrist to a heavy four-poster bed halted her midway and jarred her sore body. She lay back down, trying to ignore the pain. Squeezing her eyes shut again, she attempted to clear the images from her head.
It was just a dream. But that wasn’t entirely true. It had been a dream but also a collection of memories: Peter barely alive, covered in his own blood on the floor of a cold Gestapo prison cell. Prinz threatening her with his knife. Weiss sneering at them. Siebert dragging her away with the ugliest of intentions. Her brother, one bullet hole in his leg and another in his lungs. She took a few deep breaths, reminding herself that those images were in the past.
But she was a prisoner again. She was in a second-story bedroom of the Norman home Tschirner and three of his guards had commandeered that morning. The six men Tschirner had left at the barn had returned empty-handed. Now the ten of them guarded Genevieve, their bait.
A soft click caught her attention, and she glanced at the door as Siebert slipped into the room, leering at her and wearing a cruel smile on his lips. She’d woken up to a nightmare just as terrifying as the one she’d been dreaming.
“The more you struggle, the worse it will be for you,” he said in German. Genevieve understood every word and panicked, tugging at her handcuff. It didn’t do any good—the handcuffs and bed post were both solid. As Siebert walked toward the bed, Genevieve grabbed the table lamp and threw it at him. The cord caught and the lamp fell harmlessly at his feet. Siebert laughed at her attempt, crushing a few pieces of broken glass with his boots.
Genevieve tried to scream, but her throat constricted with terror. Screaming wouldn’t help anyway. None of the other Gestapo guards would interfere.
As Siebert approached the bed where she lay, the door crashed open. Another Gestapo guard stood in the entrance, his eyes wide with concern. “Weiss, Kraus, Mullar, and Von Steuben are missing. Tschirner’s put us all on high alert and wants to see you immediately.” The guard was gone as quickly as he’d come, but Genevieve heard him giving the same information to someone in a room across the hall.
Four Gestapo guards missing? Genevieve wasn’t sure what that meant beyond a reprieve from Siebert’s attentions. He grabbed her face and glowered down at her then pushed her away with such force that her head cracked against the headboard. It hurt, leaving her dizzy and nauseated. Within seconds, Siebert was out the door, reporting to his standartenführer. Genevieve struggled to breathe as tears of relief slid down her cheeks.
A sudden thump startled her, and she saw a rock with thick string wrapped around it amid pieces of the broken lamp. Straining against the handcuff, she rolled the small stone toward her with her foot. As the stone turned, she saw the paper secured to the rock. She twisted to reach it with her unbound left hand and barely grasped it. She pulled the paper out and hid the rock behind a pillow. The rock wasn’t her ideal weapon, but it was something for when Siebert returned. When she unfolded the paper, her heart momentarily skidded. The handwriting was Peter’s.
Stay away from the windows if you can. Everything will be okay soon. Get rid of this paper.
After reading it twice, Genevieve tore the paper into shreds and pushed the scraps between the sheets and the mattress. Peter was here, somewhere, and four Gestapo guards were missing. Peter had come for her. The thought brought her hope but also fear. Tschirner wanted Peter to come for her; he was waiting for it. What if everything was unfolding exactly as Tschirner planned?
Genevieve twisted to see out the window. She saw Tschirner’s Mercedes and the Opel Blitz most of his guards rode in. She couldn’t see any of the guards, just the grounds around the house and the hedgerows. Based on the length of the shadows, it was early evening, which meant Peter was probably nearing twenty-four hours without sleep, because she couldn’t imagine he would have lain down long enough to rest after he discovered she was gone. Peter was tougher and stronger than she was; sleep deprivation would affect him only a little, but that was one more advantage for Tschirner.
She listened to the distant thunder of artillery. The sound of battle had been growing louder the last few days, but they were still some distance from the front. Basseneville was in clear Nazi territory, where the Gestapo could act with impunity. After a while, Siebert and another guard walked between the vehicles and the house. Moments later, Genevieve heard the front door open and several loud voices boom. It was time to collect her weapon.
She held the rock in her left hand, hidden behind her back. Siebert came in, and as he unlocked her handcuff she brought her other hand around and aimed for the back of his head. Siebert’s reflexes were sharp. Before she could hit him, his arm twisted around hers until her wrist was trapped under his armpit. With his arm wrapped around hers, he squeezed until she let the rock drop with a gasp of pain. His icy gray eyes glared at her through narrow slits. Her arm wasn’t broken yet, but it would be if Siebert applied any additional pressure. Siebert called her a filthy name and brought his other hand around to the back of her neck for a sharp blow. Genevieve’s world erupted in a burst of pain and then turned black.
She woke to see the bedroom door shutting behind her. Her view was skewed—she was hanging over Siebert’s shoulder. “I can walk,” she said. Siebert grunted but didn’t put her down until they had reached the bottom of the stairs. Then he dropped her so quickly she didn’t have time to catch herself.
“I said to hurry,” Tschirner said darkly.
Genevieve pulled herself to her feet but was too dizzy to stand without the wall’s support. Siebert grabbed her arm and pulled her outside. He shoved her toward another Gestapo guard, who snatched her and forced her to march with him toward the Mercedes.
There had been ten men at dawn. Then four went missing. Three additional guards seemed to have vanished since Genevieve first heard of Tschirner’s problems. Tschirner climbed into the backseat, and the guard pushed Genevieve in next to him. He aimed his pistol at her to deter any escape attempt. The guard who’d just released her climbed behind the wheel, and Siebert took the front passenger seat with his handgun drawn.
“Where is Sturmmann Glick?” Tschirner hissed. Apparently, one of the guards had only recently disappeared. When no one answered, Tschirner ordered the driver to go, but the car wouldn’t start. Genevieve immediately thought of Peter—immobilizing an automobile would be like child’s play to him.
“Check the truck,” Tschirner ordered. The driver jumped out and ran to the troop transport. He never made it. A bullet struck him in the head, and he fell halfway between the car and the truck. Genevieve didn’t hear the shot until after the man had fallen, and that surprised her. Peter didn’t have any long-range firearms, only a pistol and a knife.
Tschirner’s normally pale skin was red with worry as he ordered her out of the car. Genevieve would have made a run for it, despite Tschirner’s weapon, but Siebert was waiting for her. He wrapped his left arm around Genevieve’s shoulders and held his pistol ready in his right hand. She could barely breathe inside his vicelike grip. The Gestapo men used her as a shield while they ran back to the home. Before they could get through the front door, they were distracted by the sounds of a scuffle on the other side of the house. Tschirner positioned himself between Siebert and the French home as they turned the corner.
A Gestapo guard lay facedown on the overgrown grass, with a knife in his back. Siebert brought Genevieve with him as he investigated. He unceremoniously flipped the body over with his boot. “Sturmmann Glick,” he whispered. He didn’t bother to close Glick’s dead eyes, his attention now on another knife covered in bright red blood, five meters away on a stone path. Between the second knife and the kitchen door were four wet marks. As Siebert forced Genevieve to walk with him, she noticed each successive mark was longer and shaped more and more like a footprint. Her suspicions were confirmed by the last mark, a crimson shoe-print on the wooden step leading into the kitchen.
Siebert looked at Tschirner, who nodded. Siebert followed the bloody footsteps into the house. There were three more footprints inside, followed by an enormous red smear, as if whoever was making the footprints had collapsed. Stretching away from the smudge was a red streak, several inches wide, leading around the corner. They followed it through a hallway before it turned again. Siebert kept Genevieve in front of him as they peered around the final corner. The blood trail continued across the living room before stopping at a gash in Peter’s left thigh.