1942
Paris, France
Bruno was asleep. He had been curled up next to Katerina for the better part of three hours. He had fallen asleep in one of the rare snatches of silence from their parents' fighting. She listened; there was little noise from downstairs. All she could hear was Bruno. His soft breathing sounded like the wind in the branches of the tree outside her bedroom window. Katerina laid a finger on his cheek. His skin was soft, velvety. In the moonlight that poured into the room, he looked pale and sickly. She slid her legs out of the bed, and rearranged the bedclothes to cover her little brother. As she planted a kiss on his cheek, he rolled over and stretched to fill the warm space she had left.
Realising how cold it was without the protection of her blankets, Katerina crossed to her wardrobe. Gazing over her clothes, she made the sudden decision to leave the house. She pulled a long-sleeved blue dress with a white collar over her underslip, and, buttoning it up, crossed to her cupboard. Digging inside, she found some white socks and brown brogue shoes.
The shoes made small clicking sounds on the wooden floor as she left the room. The light was off in the landing. Blinded momentarily, she felt with her hands. The stair rail was warm beneath her fingers. Reaching the bottom of the stairs, Katerina tiptoed to the living room door. Suddenly a loud bang echoed through the hallway and the shouting began again.
They were arguing in mixed languages: German, English, and a little French. Katerina understood every word. She hated her parents fighting, and the reason they fought; her father was a Nazi. High ranking and influential. Her stepmother loathed it – she thought that the Nazis were all Jew-murderers and rapists. Katerina was inclined to agree.
'Please stop,' she whispered, her hand resting on the door to the living room, where her parents were still shouting. 'Think of Bruno…' Suddenly she heard the maid's restless footsteps climbing the stairs from the kitchen, and, to avoid capture, she ducked into the cupboard beneath the first-floor stairs. The maid knocked on the door to the living room and the loud voices stopped.
Peeking out through a crack in the door, Katerina saw the maid enter the room. Quickly, she sprinted from her hiding place to the front door and pulled it open. A sudden anger fuelled her down the steps and onto the street. Cursing her father and stepmother's foolish, selfish behaviour, she ran across the road, leaving footprints in the light layer of snow that covered it.
Damn you, damn you to hell! She yelled in her mind. Why could they not be civil? Why could they not think about Bruno? Their constant arguments were killing him! He did not deserve this, not at all. She tried to help him, tried to comfort him, but she knew that deep down, he would not recover from this. Damn you! She spoke the words this time. Her breath came out in huffs of white smoke, swirling through the night air.
Her anger burnt out, she started to realise how unwise she had been by leaving the house. It was cold – snow had started falling like a pale mist, spiralling down from some unknown cloud – and Katerina was wearing nothing but a thin woollen dress. She shivered, and thought of her bed, warmed by her sleeping brother's tiny form. But she couldn't go back, not yet. She couldn't face the sticky sweetness of her stepmother, the cold distance of her father, the sad, lost eyes of her little brother.
Bruno was the offspring of Katerina's father and his second wife Maria, who was French. He had been born a year after Katerina and her father had moved to France – it had taken her father three days to find a love interest, and then two months for them to marry. He was her half-brother; they shared blood. That was all Katerina needed – some small link to the outside world, some escape from the mournful loneliness of being the unwanted daughter of a widowed Nazi.
Rue Chápon was drenched in moonlight and snow. The white flakes seemed suspended in the air, frozen in time. The buildings loomed either side of the narrow street, spilling light and noise onto the peaceful scene. Slowly, the buildings down the left side of the road melted into a high brick wall – the boundaries of a park. Flurries of snow came and went, like the crescendos and diminuendos of a Chopin quartet.
Bored of the cold, Katerina's body had become numb; she was oblivious to the precipitation dissolving on her skin. A sudden spurt of warmth came when she stepped underneath a streetlamp. It was emitting a faint heat. She breathed deeply and leant against the lamppost, feeling the cold metal through her dress. It was strange, the sense of displacement that surrounded her. She felt unreal, like she was in someone else's body. The quiet that she had longed for was finally upon her.
Raucous laughter and a series of wolf-whistles broke her silence. Katerina jumped a little and looked up towards the source of the noise. Three men were stumbling down the street towards her, beer mugs still clutched in their hands. She could see, as they grew nearer, that they were wearing the unmistakeable grey uniform of the Nazis.
'Hallo! Sie sind der Verkauf von Waren?' Are you selling? The man who spoke wore an arrogant smile and his eyes, although clouded by the alcohol in his system, were mischievous and full of anticipation. She stared at him, fear causing her muscles to stiffen. After what seemed like an age to Katerina, but was only seconds, the lead soldier – the one who had spoken – stepped forwards. His uniform was that of Hauptsturmführer – a captain of the SS. He dropped his beer mug onto the floor, where it landed with a dull clunk, and stepped onto the pavement by the side of the road. Katerina took a step back until she felt the wall against her shoulder blades. The Hauptsturmführer leant over her, one hand on the wall behind her head.
'You're very pretty,' he said in German. 'Why don't we have some fun?' All sensibility and calm fled her, and she shrunk into the wall. The Hauptsturmführer thrust his free hand up her skirt, his thumb caressing the flesh of her thighs.
'Hauptsturmführer!' The voice was smooth, arrogant. The man leaning over Katerina took a step back, a little shocked. He turned and, after a second of staring, came to attention, his heels clicking together and his arm shooting up into the 'Heil Hitler.' The other two soldiers imitated his movements exactly.
'If I find you drunk again this side of Christmas, I'll have you transported. You can leave.' The three grey-clad men hurried down the street towards the Boulevard de Sébastopol, passing the man who had shouted. He stood in shadows, his face hidden by the black hat he wore. His black, calf-length leather coat reflected the small amount of light that the street lamp gave out, and his hands were covered by black gloves.
'Danke,' Katerina whispered. And then all her calm fled her and she stumbled and collapsed against the wall. Arms encircled her and she clung to them with all her remaining strength. She looked up into her rescuer's ice blue eyes and breathed a sigh of relief. The man frowned; the crumpling of his brow didn't suit him at all.
A slice of orange light fell across the man's face, and suddenly she recognised him.
'Major Hellstrom?' she asked. She was ashamed to hear her voice shuddering with terror. The man helped her up – she leaned on him heavily.
'Katerina, is that you?' He was speaking in German. He looked down at her with his blue eyes and she sensed a sudden charge in the air. 'Are you alright?' Hellstrom asked, his voice full of concern and worry.
'I'm fine, I think. I was just scared…'
'You were right to be. You weren't hurt? They didn't… they didn't touch you?'
'No,' she mumbled, ashamed again.
'If they had done, I would kill them.' His voice was full of a quiet intensity. Katerina didn't doubt his words. She stood, using the wall and Hellstrom's arm for support.
'Why are you out here at this time – and with so little clothing?' Hellstrom questioned, playing the role of protective older brother. He removed his coat and slipped it over her shoulders. She didn't object – the coat was warmed by his body and… it was his.
Katerina had been infatuated with the Major ever since she had first met him, three years ago at a celebration party in Reims. She had been fifteen – young and malleable. He had charmed her with sweet talk and the offer of champagne – something that her father had forbidden. His smart uniform, sharp gaze and hidden cruelty appealed to her in ways she couldn't describe. He had let her grow tipsy, and they had kissed on the balcony overlooking the gardens of the château. He had not tried to contact her since, and she had tried to forget about their intimacy. But now, with him just an inch from her, the memories were resurfacing and clutching a hold of her.
'I don't know why they approached me, apart from… well, why would they want that anyway?' Encouraging Katerina to lean on his arm, Hellstrom laughed as they started walking back down the Rue Chápon. During her struggle with the SS soldiers, the snow had stopped falling – something she hadn't noticed.
'You are alone, at night, and, Katerina, you must know that you are beautiful!' Katerina avoided his gaze. He continued. 'Being the daughter of Henrik Friedmann, the soldiers have come to know about you. They are amazed by your beauty and elegance. I hear these things from all around, you know.' Blushing, she looked down and then back up into a powerful stare from her companion. 'And who could blame them?' Hellstrom whispered as he leant down to kiss her. She felt his lips on hers, gently prying. She opened herself to him; Hellstrom's arm slipped round her waist and pulled her closer. He deepened the kiss. And then it was over and Katerina was breathless.
'Come, let me show you something,' Hellstrom said, a gleam in his eye and a mischievous smile on his face.
They walked for ten minutes, their pace quick. They had entered a shabbier part of Paris, towards the north of the city. Trusting in her companion, she let Hellstrom lead her down a small alleyway. They stopped halfway. Katerina looked around. There was a door at the end, with a small sign that read 'Pas d'entrée,' and peeling paint on its frame. A wooden ladder ran up the side of the nearest building which was very rundown. There were no lights on in the windows.
Hellstrom kissed her again, this time his hand finding its way to her shoulder blades and then her neck. He broke off the embrace and ran his fingers through Katerina's hair. This proving a difficult task due to the amount of pins holding her hair in a bun, he removed them and she shook her hair. It waterfalled down her back.
'That's better.' This time, the kiss was stronger. Uneasy, Katerina pulled away.
'Major, I think I should go home,' she suggested, trying to remove her arm from his grip.
'No.' His voice was surprisingly harsh. Fear coursed through her veins. The change in his behaviour scared her to the core. But she managed to keep the shudder from her voice as she spoke.
'Let me go.'
'You don't understand yet, so I'll make it clear. You don't give orders. I do.' Awkwardly, making sure he had a grip on her arm at all times, Hellstrom pulled off his gloves. She shivered as he placed his cold fingers on her face. He traced her jaw line, forcing her head back until the pale white flesh of her throat was exposed. His tongue flicked over her skin and a tear rolled down her cheek.
Hellstrom pushed her down to the ground and removed his jacket. The brown shirt he wore had sweat stains under the arms.
'Say my name.'
'Please, please don't hurt me.' Katerina's voice quavered as she spoke. Hellstrom backhanded her across the face. She screamed.
'Say my name!' he yelled down at her.
'Dieter…' she sobbed.
'That's better.' He pulled at his belt-buckle, and leaned over her. 'Now, you're not going to shout, and you're not going to scream. If you do, I'll kill you.' Katerina found her strength, and spat in his face.
'Death is better than you!' she shouted, shuffling backwards, trying to push herself from the ground. Hellstrom laughed, and punched her in the face. Blood welled in her mouth, and pain blossomed over her chin. She spat again and again, trying to rid herself of the metallic taste. Just as she recovered, he punched her again, this time in the ribs.
He leapt on her, pinning her down, forcing her back onto the ground and thrusting his hand up her skirt. He wasted no time in pulling off her underwear, despite her protestations.
'No! Get off!' Katerina kicked and pushed, but Hellstrom was hard as rock against her and heavy. His hand plunged between her thighs and she felt his cold fingers inside her.
'Ahh, so you've had no little affairs with soldiers? I would have put you down as a whore!' He laughed again, and removed his hand. Pulling her legs wider, he ignored her moans and cries and thrust himself into her. Pain flashed in her belly as he rocked his body over hers. Tears rolled down her cheeks and she sobbed, helpless. Her arms were pinned down and her legs trapped underneath Hellstrom's. She felt disgusting, lying there with this man on top of her.
'Help!' Katerina choked, trying again to push Hellstrom off her. It was fruitless. She turned her face away from his heavy breath and dry kisses, focussing instead on the other side of the alleyway. Then a pair of boots came into view, brown, with laces up the front. The pain, so successfully numbing her senses, clouded too her mind. She was confused. Then something clicked into place in the back of her brain: person equals help. She screamed.
The weight of the Gestapo Major was pulled off her. Katerina felt light, free, as though she was floating. A horrific thwack and a shriek of pain brought her back to the waking world. She pushed herself up and saw Major Hellstrom on the ground, his arms outstretched to try and stop the onslaught of blows that came from a giant bear-like man wielding what looked like a long club. The man on the ground flailed and screeched until, finally, he was still.
Then the bear man turned on her.
He dropped his bat – it fell to the floor with a thud. Took two steps towards her. He opened his mouth and spoke; distorted English.
Katerina let out a scream and hurled herself at the man, scratching and biting, fear fuelling her madness. The man hollered and batted her away with one soup-plate-sized hand. He reached out to her but she hissed and threw herself at him again. This time, however, he was ready for her; he picked her up and held her at arm's length. She squirmed and kicked, but the man was strong.
'Lassen Sie mich los, bastard!' she yelled, and sunk her teeth deep into the flesh of his forearm. The bear man swore and dropped her. Her head hit the floor hard. The ocean roared in her ears and the sky collapsed onto her. Blackness overcame her like a flood. The last thing she saw, through half-closed lids, was the bear man reaching out to her again, fear in his eyes.