Chapter Twelve

As Gibbon was shown out through the back, into a waiting unmarked sedan, von Waltz watched Avenue Foch from his window. Children played hide-and-seek on the contre-allée, their nursemaids overseeing prams and picnic baskets. Finally, a long, glossy Mercedes pulled up to the sidewalk.

The Obersturmbannführer clapped his hands in delight. “Another guest!” he called out cheerily. “More coffee, Fräulein Schmidt!” She narrowed her eyes, but rose to do his bidding.

“More coffee!” Ludwig gabbled. “More coffee!”

“Shut. Up!” Von Waltz yanked the curtain down over the bird’s cage.

Ludwig managed, “Snowpisser! Beer idiot! Bed wetter!” before he quieted again in the darkness.

Two uniformed SS agents climbed the staircase with Sarah in front of them, pushing her with the tips of their guns. Her head was covered by a sack, her hands bound behind her. When they reached the second floor, they shoved her into von Waltz’s office. She stumbled and fell.

Von Waltz eyed the two officers. Both looked the worse for wear. One had ugly red gouges down his cheeks, while the other’s hand was bound in a bloody handkerchief.

“Gentlemen,” he inquired. “What happened?”

The first SS officer poked the barrel of his gun into Sarah’s ribs. “She scratches, Obersturmbannführer.”

The second grimaced. “And bites.”

“Lift her up.” As they did, von Waltz sighed. “Well, remove the hood and untie her hands. Let’s see our little hellcat.” They removed the covering, revealing Sarah—eyes wild, lips chapped, hair snarled. A bruise bloomed on one cheek.

“Ah.” Von Waltz eyed her. “You must be Madame Sabine Severin.” He smiled. “Or should I say—Sarah Sanderson? We’ve been waiting for you, Miss Sanderson. We’re well aware the British are recruiting and using women as terrorists in Europe. Colonel Gaskell of Special Operations Executive has no shame.”

She stared at him, but said nothing.

“We know how frightened you’ve been,” von Waltz continued in honeyed tones, approaching her slowly, as one would a cornered wild animal. “You confessed as much in your letters home to your mother. She lives where? Ah, yes—Liverpool. You’re a long way from home, Miss Sanderson.”

Sarah’s eyes darted around the office; she recoiled when she saw the painting of Hitler.

“We know about SOE. We know about Sir Frank Nelson and Lord Selborne and Sir Charles Hambro. We know about Colonel Gaskell and F-Section. We also know about your paramilitary training at Arisaig House, about parachute school at Fulshaw Hall, about ‘finishing school’ in Beaulieu.”

Sarah schooled her face.

“We have a friend of yours here in custody as well—Hugh Thompson.” The Obersturmbannführer gave a sugary smile and paused. “Mr. Thompson has been rather…uncooperative. First with Hans Fortner and now with us.”

Sarah’s chest rose with a sharp intake of breath, but she refused to give von Waltz the satisfaction of an outburst. “I have nothing to say to you,” she said, haughty as a princess despite her bound hands and bruises. “You represent everything I despise.”

Von Waltz pressed his lips together and knit his eyebrows in a facsimile of sympathy. “Work with us, Miss Sanderson. Work with us and you will live. Not only that, but you will live fairly well. And your Mr. Thompson, too.”

Sarah said nothing.

“You’ll make me do things I dislike by not cooperating,” he mused. “I’m your victim, really. Miss Sanderson, I will ask you one more time: work with us.”

Her gaze held steady, and she said in her best Liverpudlian accent, “Fuck you.”

Von Waltz raised his hand as if to slap her, then dropped it. “We have your radio.” Impatience crept into his tone. “We found it in your apartment. In a perfect world, we would like you to send a few messages for us, back to England.”

“And I’d like to dance Giselle, but that’s not happening either, is it?”

Von Waltz’s manicured hands clenched. “Take this woman to the basement!”

Elise Hess had been busy in the convent’s herb gardens and kitchen, preparing medicines for the English captain: echinacea tincture to reduce swelling and calendula ointment to heal infection. She returned to the pilot’s room with fresh bandages and her concoctions, as well as a vase of roses. When she knocked and then unlocked his heavy wooden door, she was surprised to hear music.

“ ‘Là ci darem la mano’?” she asked, putting down her tray on a low table.

“Yes, I love Mozart.” He smiled up at her from the bed. “Mère St. Antoine let me have her own personal wireless. And so I can listen to music. It’s been a blessed relief.”

“And I adore Don Giovanni.” As a conductor’s daughter, as well as a pianist herself, Elise was well versed in music. She hadn’t heard any in a while—not counting the nuns’ hymns at Mass. There was no wireless for the sisters, as Mère St. Antoine’s policy was “We should pray and not concern ourselves with politics.”

Elise handed him the ceramic mug of herbal tea, and he sipped. “Ugh,” he said, making a face.

For a moment, he looked like a little boy, forced to eat his greens. “This isn’t a tea party, Captain. It’s for your health.”

“Gus, please.”

“Gus.” She undid the bandage on his leg and examined his wound, then cleaned it and applied the calendula ointment. “Your infection is deep,” she said, wrapping his calf with fresh bandages. “I wish I had morphine to give you.”

“Do you think my leg will need…amputation?”

As a nurse, Elise had always practiced honesty. “I can’t say,” she replied, looking him in the eye. “I hope not.”

“Will I live?”

“I’ll do everything possible to help you.”

He looked away to the small wooden crucifix on the wall; Elise knew he was struggling to control his emotions. “Why did you decide to become a nun?” he asked finally.

“I’m not a nun, actually,” Elise answered, pouring him more tea. “I’m a novice—meaning I’m staying with the sisters, trying to learn if the life of the order is right for me.”

“Who tells you if it’s right? Mère St. Antoine?”

“No!” She laughed. “God, of course.”

“Ah.”

Realizing that talking kept his mind off his injuries, she continued, “I always wanted to be a nun, though, ever since I was a little girl. But”—she smiled—“I liked boys. So I never took the vows.” She laughed at his expression. “Though I seem to have found myself here, at a convent, somewhat unexpectedly.”

“As have I,” he retorted drily.

The corners of her mouth curled up. The aria ended, and, after a few words from the announcer in French, “Ah! perdona al primo” began.

“Another Mozart favorite.” Gus looked up at Elise with gratitude. “You must be good luck.”

“God is better than luck. Rest now and I’ll check on you later.”

Elise returned to the Mother Superior’s office. “He’s stable. But the infection is very bad. And it’s spreading. I treated it with herbs, but I need real medicine. A doctor. In an ideal world, a surgeon.”

“My child…” Mère St. Antoine began.

“I know.”

“Will he live?”

“Most likely he won’t, unless his leg is amputated.”

“Can you do that here?”

“With the infection and the lack of sterile surgical equipment, no.”

“I will pray for him, and for you, too.” The Mother Superior opened a cupboard and took out a dusty brown bottle. “Brandy,” she said by way of explanation. “Perhaps it will help our guest with the pain.”

The stocky man flung another bucket of water at Hugh’s face. “Wake up, Sleeping Beauty!” he called. “Are you going to work with us?”

“No,” Hugh managed. He was slipping in and out of consciousness.

“No?” the man repeated, mockingly. “Well, maybe this will change your mind. Or, rather, she will.”

He gestured to the two SS men at the door. They opened it to reveal Sarah, then pushed her forward.

It took a while for Hugh’s eyes to focus, and when they did, he wasn’t certain what he was seeing was really there. “…Sarah?”

She sobbed, then nodded.

“You already know each other,” the stocky man interposed, “so we can dispense with the introductions.” He snapped his fingers; the guards untied her hands.

The man walked to Sarah and put his face close to hers. She stiffened.

He tore off her scarf, balled it up, and threw it into the corner. He undid the belt of her coat and yanked it from her shoulders. He ripped at her dress until it was in a puddle at her feet.

Sarah was left standing under a bare lightbulb in a white chemise, shivering from fear.

The Nazi interrogator held Hugh’s chin up, so he had to look. “You may be able to withstand your own torture, but what about hers? You don’t want to see that, my friend, believe me.” His voice softened. “Work with us. And we will spare your lover—”

“No, Hugh!” Sarah screamed. “Don’t do it!”

The stocky man nodded, and one of the thugs stepped forward. He punched her in the stomach. As she doubled over, gasping for breath, the other grabbed her hair to raise her face. They took out truncheons and circled her, as though trying to choose the most vulnerable place to attack.

As one raised his arm to strike, Hugh could take no more. “Stop!”

The two men stopped. The Englishman looked up at the man. “If you guarantee her safety, I’ll—do anything!”

“Hugh! No!”

“Give me your word—she won’t be harmed!”

The man didn’t smile. “I give you my word that as long as you both cooperate, she will be unharmed. And you as well. Obersturmbannführer von Waltz has a job for you.”

“I’ll do whatever you want. Just don’t hurt her.”

Elise knocked, then entered. “I’ve got something for you—a surprise!”

“A proper Sunday roast?” Gus asked hopefully. “Beef and Yorkshire pudding? New peas? A good claret?”

“Alas, no. But I think you’ll be pleased anyway.” When she produced the brandy bottle, his eyes lit up. “Mother Superior thought it might help with the pain.”

“I won’t say no.”

She poured a fair amount into his teacup and handed it to him. It smelled of dried figs.

“Thank you,” he said, taking it. “But it doesn’t seem right unless you have some, too.”

“Well, then,” Elise said, pouring a tiny bit for herself into a water glass. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d had alcohol. “If you insist.”

“I do.”

They clinked glasses. “Cheers,” Gus said, taking a large gulp. “Oh, that’s good.”

Elise sipped, feeling the brandy’s restorative warmth run down her throat.

“I suppose you’re wondering how I got here,” he said, after taking another swig.

“You don’t need to tell—”

“No, I want to. You told me a bit about yourself, after all. I was born in Catford—in Southeast London. After a rather less than stellar academic career, I left St. Dunstan’s College. When the war broke out, I joined the Royal Air Force.”

He took another huge gulp of brandy, and Elise poured him more. “After training, I was posted to Ninety-two Squadron, based at Croydon, as a flight commander flying Spitfires. I was coming back from a raid on Dortmund—the factories on the outskirts, not the city itself. It was what Fighter Command called the ‘Rhubarb raids.’ Supposed to force the Luftwaffe to maintain aircraft in the west, helping to relieve the pressure on Russia…” He shook his head as if to clear it. “It was on the way home, over France. My Spit was hit in the engine. I was flying too low to bail out, so I shoved my canopy back and began looking for a field to crash-land. As you can see”—with a wry smile, he indicated his bandaged leg—“it didn’t go as well as I’d hoped.”

“But how did you get here? To the convent?”

“The farmer who found me in his field didn’t know what to do, so he told his priest. The two of them brought me here, where Mère St. Antoine was kind enough to take me in and hide me. Although convalescing so close to the convent’s morgue has been…an interesting existentialist exercise. And how did you come to be here, mademoiselle?”

“I was—” Elise had never told all of her story aloud before. “I was a nurse in Berlin once upon a time.” Now was not the time. “I’m sorry, Gus—but I’d rather not speak of it.”

As Maggie waited on the train platform, her eyes went to a large poster with bold lettering:

10,000 FRANCS REWARD!

Following the decree establishing the death penalty for all those who hide English soldiers or aid them to escape, the German High Command announces it will pay 10,000 francs reward to any person providing names and addresses of those engaged in this criminal activity.

A German officer was staring at her. A captain, from his uniform. Using a technique she’d picked up in Beaulieu, she stared fixedly at his feet in their gleaming black boots, allowing a quizzical look to cross her face.

He stopped staring at her and followed her gaze. He shuffled his feet, looking at them from all angles, trying to determine what was wrong. Maggie kept staring; finally, he became so uncomfortable, he moved to another part of the platform.

Ha! she thought, pleased with her small victory.

The train pulled in with a whistle and a shriek of brakes. She was relieved to secure an empty car for herself, sitting next to the grimy window. The city faded, giving way to plowed fields. She could see old men in coveralls with hoes, cows, and the flashing green of crops. She pulled her coat around her, trying to ignore her wildly beating heart.

Finally, the train arrived in Chantilly. Maggie got off at the very last minute. The countryside felt a world away from the heart of Paris. From the posted map, she knew she still had a several-mile hike on a dirt road through a dense forest. Glad I changed my shoes, she thought as she followed the road, scrambling over stones and jumping across mud puddles, stopping once to catch her breath, leaning on an ancient oak.

When she finally reached the convent, it turned out to be a stone structure surmounted by a towering cross, encircled by a cluster of smaller buildings. Breathing hard, she made her way over worn paths, then climbed the steep stairs, hollowed by centuries of footsteps, and rang the bell.

The door of the Convent of Labarde creaked open. The nun facing her was very young, with freckles sprinkling her delicate face. She gave Maggie a wary look. “Yes, mademoiselle?”

“How do you do?” Maggie began. Then she stopped and took a deep breath. The entryway smelled of beeswax floor polish. What exactly do I say? Now that the moment had come, she realized how terrified she was of failing again. “I’m, well, I’m looking for someone.” She held out the photograph she’d taken from the Hess apartment. “Do you know this woman?”

The young nun took the picture. As she squinted at it, she blanched. “Come in, mademoiselle, and wait inside. I’ll get the Mother Superior. You can ask her.”

Waiting in the entranceway, Maggie examined the crucifix hanging on the wall, made of rosewood and brass, Christ’s carved ivory palms pierced. Moments later, an elderly nun appeared. “I am Mother Superior here,” she said, nodding to Maggie. “Mère St. Antoine. Let me take you to the parlor. We can speak there in private.”

Maggie followed the Mother Superior into a sparsely furnished room, flooded with sunlight. Both women sat on a hard horsehair sofa below a reproduction of Bouguereau’s The Charity—virtue personified as a young mother caring for twin infants.

“Thank you for seeing me, Mère St. Antoine,” Maggie began. “My name is…well, my name isn’t important. I’m—I’m looking for…Elise Hess. This is her picture.”

The Mother Superior looked long and hard at the image of the girl in the silver-framed photograph. Finally, she looked up. “We have no one here who goes by the name Elise Hess,” she answered.

“She might be using a different name,” Maggie pressed. “And she might look quite different. She might have much shorter hair and be much thinner.”

The Mother Superior’s voice was gentle. “And how do you know this person, this young woman you’re looking for?”

“She’s my sister. Half sister—we have the same mother. I know she was a prisoner at Ravensbrück because of her Resistance work with Father Licht and the German clergy in Berlin. To the best of my knowledge, the last time she was seen was in Paris.”

“And why would you think she’s here?” the nun asked.

“I was able to find her family’s Paris apartment. At the nearby church, Our Lady of Sorrows, Father Janvier said he hadn’t seen her, but that there was an order of nuns associated with the church—your order, Mère St. Antoine. I know Elise always wanted to be a nun when she was a girl. And she was a nurse at Charité Hospital in Mitte, Berlin. A convent with an infirmary like yours would be a place she’d be drawn to.”

There was a long silence as the two women took each other’s measure. “You must be tired from your journey.” Mère St. Antoine rose. “Let us bring you some refreshment. Please wait.”

The Mother Superior went to the kitchen and asked one of the sisters to prepare food and drink, then sought Elise. She found her with the injured Englishman, both of them smelling of brandy. “May I have a word with you when you’re done, Mademoiselle Eleanor?”

Elise jumped to her feet and adjusted her wimple. “Of course.” She followed the Mother Superior into the hallway and closed the door. The two women stood, facing each other in the stone corridor.

“Someone claiming to be your sister is here.”

“Sister?”

“A young woman, around your age? About your height? Red hair? She’s here to see you. She knows you were at Ravensbrück. She tracked you to Paris.”

“How—”

“Through Father Janvier at Our Lady of Sorrows, she heard of our convent.” Her eyes considered Elise warily. “Is she your sister?”

“She is, Mère.” Elise folded her arms across her chest. “But I won’t see her.”

“She says she’s come a very long way.”

“She’s—she’s not like us.” Elise struggled to explain. “We have nothing in common.”

Mère St. Antoine shook her head. “At least see her, child. These are troubled times. She may have something important to say to you. And who knows, you may not see her again on earth. If you’re at odds, best to make your peace now.”

“Are you giving me an order, Mère?”

“Of course not, child.” She reached out to grip the younger woman’s shoulder. “It’s up to you. It’s your decision.”

Elise was silent.

“But if you do wish to see her, she’s having tea in my study.”