PART VII: It's not the fall that kills you

If we didn't know better we would love one another.

- Aaron B Powell, Quixotic

14 March 1944
Paris, C'est la Vie café

Peters came the next day. He entered and stood just inside the door, and when she smiled brightly at him he did not smile back. His demeanour was painfully correct and there was no hint of the ease which had developed between them over the last few weeks. He waited until she had moved close to him before he spoke. "Can I take you to dinner? There's a small bistro on the Seine – I happen to know they have beef on the menu tonight."
Meat was a rare delicacy in Paris these days and her mouth watered at the prospect. "That would be lovely," she responded, and some of the rigidity left his shoulders.
"Good," he said, one corner of his mouth lifting in the fleetest of smiles, "I'll come for you at eight."
He departed without another word, leaving her to digest the implications of the brief encounter. Had he expected her to disapprove of his behaviour two nights ago? Was that the reason for his stiff manner? Could it be that it actually mattered to him what she thought of him? A frisson ran through her at the possibility, and she quickly squashed it, overcome with shame. And then she remembered, belatedly, that she had decided that she would tell him that she did not want any privileges from him anymore. Dear God, what was becoming of her?

0o0

20:00

Ruth was ready long before 20:00 and pottered around the apartment, picking things up and putting them down again as butterflies fluttered around in her stomach. She had spent the rest of the day agonising over her reaction to the Standartenführer. Was she really becoming attracted to an SS officer, a man who had shot two children and sanctioned unspeakable actions against the Jewish population? Did she have such weak principles that she would throw them out the window at the merest hint of interest from an attractive man? But she had always had good instincts about people – she was an observer of life rather than a participator, and she noticed small things in the behaviour of others that enabled her to form accurate opinions. She was seldom wrong, and she clung to that lifeline desperately. Things did not add up where Herman Peters was concerned, and what she had learnt from Hans Prinz the previous day only strengthened that view. He had intimated that Peters was not really involved in the Jewish question; that he left that aspect of his responsibilities to others. It was sad how ridiculously happy that titbit of information had made her, and it was then that she had known that she was in trouble – that she was beginning to fall for him. It didn't change the fact that she could not explain away the shooting of the children, though, and she was weighed down by an immense guilt that she could fancy a man capable of such an act. Eventually, weary of the emotional merry-go-round that she was on, she had given up - let the night bring what it would.

He was right on time, impeccably groomed and handsome in his uniform. She could tell that he had put on a fresh one before he had come over, because the lingering scent of cigarette smoke that normally clung to his clothes were absent. She had taken care with her appearance and he stumbled over his greeting as his eyes travelled over her. There was a flash of – something in their brown depths, but he was quick to hide it and she could not identify it. All the same, her nerve ends tingled as she stepped through the door and placed her hand in the crook of his elbow. He led her down the stairs and out onto the street, and to her surprise she saw one of the big black cars the SS used parked out front. Feeling reckless and heady, she lifted an eyebrow and asked teasingly, "Isn't this misuse of state assets?" The moment the words left her mouth she wanted to take them back. Would he misconstrue her lame attempt at flirting and take offence? Or worse, would he see it for what it was and take advantage? He opened the door for her, and she did not dare look at his face as she moved past him. His hand came to rest in the small of her back, and the gesture so startled her that she froze. Dipping his head, he murmured into her ear, "Think of it as passive resistance. You are helping me to weaken the German war effort by wasting valuable fuel on frivolity." His voice was low, rich, warm, and it stroked her senses and ignited a want she was careful not to name deep in her abdomen. When she lifted her gaze to his, there was a mischievous glint in his eyes and she realised – under different circumstances he could be good company.

0o0

For the rest of the evening he was just that; he was more relaxed in her presence than ever before and chatted amiably about various topics. But always, she got the impression, there were large parts of him that were carefully locked away, and for the first time she wondered whether it could have anything to do with the shooting of the children. Could all of this – his betrayal of his country, his self-containment, be a result of that one act of cruelty? She had been so caught up in her thoughts that she hadn't realised he had fallen silent, and was contemplating her across the table with an unreadable expression. Not for the first time she wished that she knew what he thought of her.

"Rosa-" he began, but a commotion at the door interrupted and he turned sharply towards it. A small scruffy dog had slipped in with the latest customers and the waiters had it cornered. One of them lifted a long wooden ladle, clearly intent on clubbing the wretched little thing with it, and Herman moved swiftly. In two long strides he was there and grabbed the man's arm before he could strike the dog. The waiter spun round, scowling, but it quickly morphed into fear when he registered the uniform. The SS officer's own face was furious, and he twisted the arm he had in his grasp until the waiter yelped in pain and dropped the ladle.
"Leave the dog alone," he ordered, and all the waiters melted away hurriedly. Peters glared at the other patrons until they all prudently averted their eyes. He came back to the table and cut a generous piece from his steak, then crouched down near the cowering dog and held it out. The animal looked between the meat and the man holding it uncertainly; clearly its experience of the human race had not been all that positive to date.
"It's all right," Peters said soothingly, and eventually hunger overcame caution and the dog crept forward and took the proffered meat.
"Good girl," he murmured as she gobbled it up. Ruth watched on in amazement as the little creature scooted forward and sheltered against Peters' legs, and he scratched her behind the ear. When he stood and came back to the table the dog followed, and lay down under his chair once he'd sat down.

"I think you've made a loyal friend for life," she commented before handing over a piece of her own precious steak to him. His eyes lifted to her face in surprise, before he gave a small smile and took it from her. The dog eagerly consumed that as well, then stayed under the chair quietly for the rest of the meal. When they eventually left, she trotted after them, and Ruth wondered what Peters would do. Without a word he picked her up and deposited her on the backseat of the car, and Ruth could no longer contain her curiosity.
"What are you going to do with her?" she asked as he started the car and drove the short distance back to her apartment.
He sighed. "I'll try and find a home for her. It won't be easy, mind – people can barely find enough to eat for themselves, so most won't be eager to take on an animal as well."
She observed him, noting his morose expression, and realised this was somehow important to him. It mattered to him what became of the little dog. It was yet another unexpected development where Herman Peters was concerned, and without examining her motives too closely she blurted, "She can stay with me."
He turned his head to her in astonishment and she shrugged before adding cheekily, "Since you have the means to help me find enough food to keep her fed."
"Ah," he said, understanding dawning, "this is about the special coupons, isn't it?"
"You should have told me," she said evenly, no longer quite as upset by the matter as she was a few days ago.
"Would you have used them if I did?" he asked shrewdly, and her silence was as eloquent as any verbal response would have been. "That's exactly why I didn't," he continued, and she looked at him in confusion. He parked in front of her building and turned towards her. "You have to be seen to enjoy the privileges concomitant with dating a senior SS officer. Few people will believe a young woman like you would choose someone like me over, say, a younger man like Hans Prinz without added benefits."

He was watching her intently and she was aware of the weight of the moment, of the fire buried deep in his eyes. Attraction arced between them and she could feel the heat push up her body and spark behind her nipples. Dear God, she wanted him. She swallowed and thought about the children, and did not say that at that particular moment she would pick him over any man on earth. Instead she said, "All right, I'll continue to use them," and cursed the low, husky tone of her voice. His heated gaze stayed on her, the silence stretching and crackling with tension, until he turned his head away and nodded once.
"Good then."
When he got out of the car to walk around and open the door for her, she felt bereft, alone in the silence.

0o0

The dog whimpered quietly but stood still as Peters bathed her. He had stripped off his shirt and jacket and was clad only in his white undershirt, and she watched the muscles flex in his shoulders and upper arms as he worked. He talked soothingly to the creature, who watched his face devotedly as he did so. Once she was wet it became obvious how painfully thin she was and Ruth's heart went out to her. In one's own struggles to survive the ravages of war, one tended to forget that it was hard on all living things. She handed him a towel and he vigorously rubbed the little body until she was more or less dry. Now that she was clean the white and reddish brown of her fur was evident, and Peters said out of the blue, "Scarlet."
Ruth smiled. "That's a nice name for her."
They settled her in an empty box turned on its side with a small blanket inside, and watched as she immediately fell asleep, clearly exhausted.
"Poor thing," Ruth said, and Peters looked at her.
His eyes were gentle and for once unguarded as he spoke. "You have a good heart, Rosa," he said softly, to her great surprise, and she felt herself falling into his gaze. His eyes flicked down to her lips and she caught her breath, her heart hammering in her ears. She was certain that he was about to kiss her and had to physically stop herself from leaning towards him. And perhaps he would have, but the spell was broken by a loud and insistent knock at the door.

Peters briefly closed his eyes. "Who is it?" he snapped.
"Jurgen Setzer, Standartenführer," a muffled voice answered, and Peters glanced at Ruth in alarm.
"Wait!" he ordered, simultaneously putting a finger against his lips for Ruth to keep quiet. He swiftly pulled off his undershirt and she stared at him in alarm, a brief impression of a well-defined, sparsely haired chest burning itself onto her retinas before he grabbed her by the arm and led her toward her bedroom door.
"Get in bed and hand me your shirt and, er, undergarment," he instructed, and she finally caught up with his thinking. He wanted Setzer to get the impression that they had been in bed together. She half-closed the door and stripped off her shirt and brassiere, and handed it to him. After hastily ruffling the bed covers, she got in and pulled the sheet right up to her chin. Peters had kicked off his shoes and socks and had removed his belt, and she saw him muss his hair before he cast a final critical eye over the scene and yanked open the door.

"This better be a matter of life and death," he said icily to the younger man waiting on the other side.
Through the half-open door Ruth saw Setzer's eyes widen at the trail of clothes leading to the bedroom before he straightened up and began to salute. He stopped halfway through, belatedly realising that his superior was very much out of uniform.
"Apologies, Standartenführer," he mumbled and reached inside his coat. "A priority message came in from Berlin, for your immediate attention." He held out an envelope, his gaze straying back to the brassiere carelessly flung over a chair as Peters took it from him.
"All right. Now bugger off," the older man said dismissively and closed the door smartly. He stood, listening intently as the footsteps moved away, until he was certain that the Hauptsturmführer had left.

She watched him as he thoughtfully considered the envelope in his hands, turning it over and inspecting it closely. Curiosity overcame prudishness and she got out of bed and slipped on her dressing gown before joining him. "What is it?" she queried, and he glanced at her.
"The devious little runt has opened it."
Ruth looked at the envelope in his hands, but it looked fully intact to her.
"How do you know?"
He flipped it over again and showed her the back. "There." It was the tiniest of tears in the edge of the flap where it was glued shut, and once again she felt the thrill of admiration for his skills. She would never have spotted it.
"Why would he do that?" she asked and he huffed a cynical laugh. The gesture made his chest expand and she was abruptly aware that he was shirtless, and that she was half naked under the gown. She swallowed and hoped that he could not see the flush creeping up her neck in the weak light.
"Because he is looking for any opportunity to put his superiors in a bad light," Peters responded, seemingly unaware of the impact his nearness was having on her. He added bitterly, "If you build an organisation on fear and brutality, you create fertile ground for backstabbing and treachery."
Her eyes lifted from where they had been tracing his bare skin to study his face. For once he had let his true feelings about the SS filter through, and she wondered whether she would be able to get some truth from him on one of the burning questions in her mind. "Herman," she said softly, reaching out a hand and touching him lightly on the arm, "why are you really doing this? Why are you giving us information?"

He stared down at her and she held her breath, aware of a thousand things at once: the heat radiating from him, the expansion and contraction of his chest as he breathed, the softness of his skin as she feathered her fingertips down his arm, how the hairs rose in goose pimples in their wake. She was aware that his breathing had sped up and that his pupils were dilated so that his eyes were almost black as they searched her own blue ones intently, almost hungrily. Had he made any move towards her in that moment, she knew later, looking back on it in the cold light of day, they would surely have fallen into bed together. But he did not. He said, very softly, so that she almost missed it, "Meine ehre heißt treue," and the guttural sound of the German was harsh on the ear after an evening spent conversing in the more lyrical rhythms of French.
Caught in his spell she translated equally softly, "My honour is loyalty."

He turned away from her and moved to sit on the sofa, and once he had settled himself he looked at her again and added, "It is the motto of the SS, and that is why." Then he turned his attention back to the envelope and she knew that those enigmatic words were the only answer she would get. She did not understand what it meant, but she was more determined than ever to make sense of it, of him. It had become the most important thing in the world to her, a burning desire to know.
He tore open the envelope and scanned the letter, and she saw the blood drain from his face. Anxiety gnawed at her – if Herman Peters was moved to fear by whatever he read things must be really bad.
"What does it say?" she asked, unable to bear not knowing any longer.
He looked at her gravely. "It's from my boss, Walter Schellenberg. I'm to leave tomorrow to make a tour of the Atlantic defences, and bring my report to Berlin in person."
Fear squeezed her heart. "Do you think he suspects…?" she queried before petering out feebly. Somehow, after everything, it felt wrong to use the word 'traitor' to describe the man in front of her.
But he shook his head. "No. The reason he wants me there is to evaluate some information one of our agents has provided." He paused, then added sombrely, "He claims to have got hold of the Allies' Invasion Plan. It provides extensive details on where and when you plan to invade France."

tbc