A/N: Especially for those reading this novel. I really do appreciate your comments.
CHAPTER TEN
St Clair July 22 1944
Charles sat in a chair next to Katrine's bed. Her face was turned to him, her hand held in his. She didn't look as tired as earlier, nor as sleepy. In fact, the storm of tears she had shed had done her the world of good. Katrine had not wept for her husband and daughter since she had left Paris. She'd built a fortress around all those emotions that she believed would derail her, make her weak again.
Her hope, she believed, was gone.
Now, as she looked at him, there was a question in her eyes.
"You want to ask me something?" he asked.
"Who shot Jürgen Schult? All I know was that his head exploded next to me, his face gone. Tell me, please. I have wondered about it."
There was a heavy pause. Katrine frowned, her fingers digging into his hand. Charlie closed his eyes. It had been literally a long shot at two hundred yards off. He was forever grateful that he had a clear line of sight when he aimed at Schult.
"Charles?"
"I shot him."
"But, you were not in the square! Where were you?"
"In a building next to the munitions depot in the Rue St. Agnes."
Katrine frowned again. "That building is two hundred yards away!"
"Yes."
"And Welthagen? Did someone shoot him too from a great distance?"
This time Charlie smiled.
"Private Rheddam Compton, my most accident prone soldier, but when he lines up a target in his scope, he is all perfection."
Katrine gave a sigh and smiled.
"Tell me about Jürgen Schult," he asked quietly. Despite her smile, there were still some shadows lurking in her eyes.
After a short silence, she spoke. "I was his lover. I did not choose to be."
"Je comprends," he responded in French, to which Katrine raised an elegant eyebrow. "Do you think he had feelings for you, Katrine?"
There was a pause as she considered his words. "Perhaps," she said slowly. "He had time enough to kill me immediately. Maybe he wanted to negotiate a truce."
"I think he must have felt something."
"He is of the past now," she said, half raising herself from the pillow, her eyes filling with sudden fire.
"Good. St. Clair has been cleansed. You are free now."
"But not all of France."
"I know. That is our business here."
Katrine nodded, her eyes still a little sad.
"I will open the Coeur de Lion tomorrow evening for business. You are welcome. When do you leave?"
He thought he saw some eagerness in her expression. His heart flipped. It disturbed him.
"On the thirty first of this month."
Her eyes were drooping, heavy with sleep. "Je suis heureuse..."
"I take it that means you are glad?"
"Hmmm..."
Charlie watched her fall asleep. Very gently he extricated his hand from hers. Then he leaned over and pressed his lips against hers in a feather light caress. She gave a little purr of contentment before sleep overcame her.
He left the room quietly and went back to her lounge, surprised at how dark it had become. Charlie walked to the mantelpiece where he'd stacked the broken photo frames earlier. He took the one with a picture of Katrine and Célestine. They laughed into the camera, their eyes bright, their hair in beautiful waves falling into their necks. They looked like sisters! Carefully he removed the photo from the frame, smiling back at the two open faces so full of life and freedom.
Then Charles Anson Miller carefully folded the photo and placed it inside Caesar's Gallic Wars, covering it again with plastic before putting it his shirt pocket.
He left the house quietly. He needed to speak with Lamine Bhoutayeb in the morning.
Paris - December 1942
He'd told Katrine he'd be away for a few days. He'd heard about a new faction of fighters in the north of France but he didn't want Katrine to accompany him. She'd received a communication from St. Clair that her great-uncle Henri du Pléssis had passed away and she needed time to reflect on whether to leave Paris.
"If I do, Lamine," she'd said, "it won't be a permanent move, you understand?"
"Je comprehends."
He'd made preparations to leave. It was a week after Katrine had been informed that Joseph and Célestine had died after all. She had been inconsolable for days. Then a strange calmness had set in. Katrine moved about the house like a caged tigress, one whose anger simmered beneath the surface.
The bodies of the unfortunate people who had been killed in the forest clearing outside Paris had been buried in a shallow grave. It had been impossible to identify Joseph, yet they knew one body had to be that of Katrine's husband because right next to him lay the body of a child that looked to be about six or seven years old. They'd spent two days arranging to have Katrine's loved ones reburied in the Paris cemetery with only Katrine, himself and two gravediggers present. He'd said a simple prayer and when he finished, he watched Katrine's lips move in wordless supplication. A simple cross marked their grave.
He had been angry a long time, since the day Lucien Blériot had so callously struck Katrine with his rifle. She had been unconscious and had not seen the truck move slowly down the Rue Lion. He'd given Lucien Blériot a furious look but couldn't react because Katrine needed immediate attention.
Lamine's heart had ached so acutely that he couldn't breathe properly for a few minutes before he'd scooped Katrine in his arms and rushed inside the house with her. At the last he had looked round at Lucien who grinned maliciously, then pointed his rifle as if he were going to shoot Lamine.
"I shall kill you first," Lamine hissed as he used his boot to kick the front door closed.
He laid her down on her bed. Her head was bleeding and when he traced the cut in her matted hair, he was alarmed at the deep gash. He had learnt enough from Joseph to treat cuts, gashes and burns. By the time he had put in the last suture, Katrine was regaining consciousness.
Recollection was instant and she began to wail heartbrokenly, cursing Lucien Blériot, damning him to hell and beyond. Lamine had quickly found a sedative in Joseph's medical bag and Katrine sputtered as she swallowed the pill.
When he had met Joseph and Katrine he had literally been at death's door, a bullet wound through the leg that had begun to fester. They treated him with love, equality, unconditional in their acceptance of him. He had lived with them for two years. He remembered Joseph's words, "In the eyes of God, every man is worthy."
What man, driven by jealousy, could so callously betray a fellow Frenchman? What man had so little worth as to consign an innocent child to certain death? What could Lucien Blériot gain by betraying someone he had once loved?
From that moment, Lamine hated Lucien Blériot.
He swore he'd take revenge one day, but right now, Katrine was beginning to lose consciousness again. He'd shaken her a little to keep her awake, not to lose sight of their new mission - to search for Joseph and Célestine.
Now he was on a quest, the nature of it unknown to Katrine. He sensed she suspected anyway, but he didn't care. He left in the dead of night, dressed in black, carrying a small ruck sack. Blériot lived alone in his house three miles from Rue Lion, a distance away from the magistrate's offices he served during the day.
Winter brought with it early darkness, dirty melting snow, black sky. It was a good time to enter the home of Blériot, who they had learnt through their underground contacts, had more enemies than they realised. He was the informant for the German forces in Paris, a sleazy individual with no moral code, a collaborator with the enemy.
In a very dark street he saw a vehicle, one he had seen from time to time in front of Katrine's home. Blériot's car, parked directly in front of his house. When Lamine reached the door he stood at one side and rang the door bell. No response. He rang again. No lights went on in the front room. He reckoned Blériot suspected foul play. But Lamine heard footsteps. He'd already retrieved a black balaclava from his ruck sack and pulled it over his head. His voice would be dimmed speaking through the woollen fabric. Blériot would not recognise his voice.
"Who is there?"
"I have heard of a plot to kill you. I have come to warn you."
"Qui êtes- vous ?"
"A friend of the Reich."
Lamine shook his head in disbelief as the door opened. Was Blériot so assured of his untouchability that he actually believed the drivel he'd just been fed?
In one swift move Lamine banged the door back against Blériot who fell to the floor. Light streamed from a back room, probably the kitchen. Blériot's pistol went flying across the room. He grabbed Blériot round his neck in a vise grip while he kicked the front door closed. In the dim light Lamine moved to pick up the pistol. Blériot's arms flailed, but Lamine increased the pressure of his grip around the collaborator's neck.
"Your bedroom, Blériot. Do not scream or I will shoot you. Now!"
The magistrate raised a hand to point to a passage. Lamine dragged him down the passage and stopped by a door.
"Open the door!" he hissed.
When the door opened, Lamine hauled the choking man to the bed and pushed him down. Then he cocked the pistol, a German Luger courtesy of the Gestapo and pressed it against his forehead. Blériot began to tremble.
"Please, please, do not kill me. I have a wife and children."
"A little late in the day to plead for them, coward!"
Blériot's wife and children were not in the house. He'd had the house watched for days without Katrine's knowledge. After his broken engagement, Blériot had since taken a wife and had children. It had certainly never stopped him from pestering the Du Pléssis-Blumenthal family.
"Where are they?" he barked the question, pressing the pistol harder against Blériot's temple.
"At La Baule. They are there."
"What is La Baule? Speak!"
"A seaside resort." Blériot began to whimper, his eyes wide with fear.
"When you take away from someone that which they loved most in their life, like a child, a husband, you forget that the same fate will befall you."
"Please...please, I beg you!"
"That's right, Blériot. Think how Katrine pleaded for mercy!"
Lamine pulled a pillow from the bed, pressed it against the side of Blériot's face. When he tried to fight off Lamine, he was rewarded with a sound thump to the stomach. Blériot gasped. Right at that moment, Lamine pressed the Luger hard against the pillow. Blériot's eyes widened with shock. Lamine smiled.
"This is for Katrine, you miserable batard!"
He fired the shot. Blériot slumped back on the bed. No sound was heard. Blériot lay bleeding from the head, his eyes and mouth wide open. In death, Lamine thought, Blériot looked like a grotesque dead clown. He calmly wiped the butt of the pistol with his shirt front, carefully wrapping Blériot's finger around the trigger. It would look as if Blériot had shot himself and didn't want the neighbours to hear.
"Rat!" Lamine hissed as he carefully retraced his steps to the front door and left quietly, vanishing through the dark streets of Paris. In a dark alley he removed his balaclava. He walked through back streets to the outskirts of the city. Near a river he found a ditch. He would spend the night there, sleep with his eyes open and in the morning he would be on the road again. It was freezing and he shivered a long time before getting up again to move. It would be better to keep moving. Lamine walked until dawn broke grey in the skies. He was hungry and tired but felt the whole world belonged to him.
He had no compunction in killing Lucien Blériot. All his compassion was reserved for Katrine du Pléssis-Blumenthal. It was reserved for Joseph Blumenthal who took Katrine's last name in order to protect himself from rats like Blériot. Joseph who had given him, Lamine, back his life and opened a new world for him. His compassion was reserved for little Célestine whom he loved, who played her violin when he was so ill, a little girl who had no reservations about loving him as another uncle in her household. Traitors and Nazi sympathisers like Blériot did not deserve a single iota of sympathy.
The next day he returned home, a worried Katrine fawning over him because he was hungry and exhausted. She never asked him what he had been up to, although his own feigned excuse of the previous day was not enough to convince her. Once he had eaten and cleaned himself, he put on a recording. The soft music - a slow Chopin adagio - filled the room and he sagged against the couch and closed his eyes, allowing the beauty of it to suffuse him and to fill him with peace, his rage slowly seeping from his body.
Only then he spoke.
"Lucien Blériot will never trouble you again."
The following day appeared in Le Figaro a short notice that the magistrate of the Paris district had committed suicide by shooting himself in the head. The article took up only a single paragraph of a column.
It was a sad testament that in death, Lucien Blériot had been considered unimportant to the German cause, a cause for which he had sold his soul...
The light shone through the window of the first floor room of the new US army headquarters. From a long, long way off, Captain Charles Miller's voice pierced through his consciousness, to bring him back to the present. Lamine stared at him then blinked a few times.
"Does Katrine know that you killed Blériot?"
"I never told her exactly what I did, but she guessed it anyway. In that respect Katrine is very sharp, Captain Miller. A lot like you, I suspect."
"She told me much of what had happened to her husband and daughter, but left out how Blériot came to his end."
"You must understand, Katrine had been nearly demented with grief, but when the final knell was sounded on their fate, she stopped weeping. I knew that her tears fell into her heart, that grieving had not stopped, although all hope that they were alive had gone."
Miller nodded solemnly, his heart aching for Katrine.
"You have feelings for her..."
"W-What?"
Miller wanted to refute Lamine's words but knew he could not deny them. It was too soon. He had not felt anything for any woman since Lucy broke off with him. Not in any romantic way, anyway.
"She needs support, Captain, to believe again that happiness is possible."
He nodded, then scraped the chair as he got up. There were a few more things he had to do today. Lamine had been the first. He too stood up and saluted Miller before he left.
In the morning Katrine woke, stretching her arms above her on the pillow, her eyes widening when she realised there was very little pain in her shoulder and leg. Her heart felt lighter than it had since Joseph and Célestine were taken. She could look back and not feel the weight of her loss bearing her down, to pretend all was well with the world inside the Coeur de Lion , then go home only to feel the boulder of her sorrow pressing her down again.
She gave a deep sigh. She knew that she would forever miss her loved ones, but time had a way of dimming her pain. Jürgen Schult had always made her feel like the whore he called her. He'd had no compassion and simply took from her what he needed for the moment.
Lying with him in her bed had brought her no pleasure for all the effort he had always tried to insinuate into what he called their lovemaking. Until Jürgen Schult arrived in St. Clair, her only reference to a fulfilling relationship and intimacy had been Joseph.
Now she could reflect on her late husband and think about their good times, how he'd always made her feel in their bed. They had been young, sometimes impetuous, but mostly with a common goal which was cemented when Célestine was born.
Another man was causing her to bring to the surface feelings she had believed hidden, under control, layers of ice covering them. She didn't want to forget Joseph, wanted to treasure her memories of him. Yet the coal black eyes of Charles Miller kept creeping into her vision. He was handsome with his jet black hair, dimples in his cheeks and a smile that threatened to melt away the first layer of ice that had formed around her heart. She was drawn to the strength that exuded from him, the confidence and leadership that seemed to have been a part of him since since adulthood.
He protected her in the dire situations she and her team found themselves in. He took charge of every situation, some of them considered long before he entered St. Clair.
For two years, people had leaned on her for guidance, for leadership. Two long years in which she had eventually become exhausted. She was so tired! She so badly wanted to lean against someone strong enough who didn't have to invite her to take refuge with him.
She'd found that man.
For a few minutes she allowed the thrill of his touch and his kiss to wash over her. He'd looked so concerned, so protective that she wanted to keep on enjoying the feeling of leaning on him. But she was realistic. Charles Anson Miller had blown into St. Clair like a fresh breeze, cleansing the town. Their appeals to Allied High Command had been answered. She had learned that Charles' company had made a detour to St. Clair. They would move on, away from the town they had liberated, to be forgotten once they'd rejoined their regiment and freed other towns and cities.
Their impact was extraordinary, something that would linger for years. She would miss their presence, she would miss Miller.
Katrine got out of bed the moment she decided she'd had enough of meandering into dreams about Charles Miller. By the time she walked into her lounge, she was dressed, an off-yellow dress like her blue one, with shoulder pads that made her look like a Hollywood actress.
Then she noticed two of the framed photos standing on the mantelpiece, but the third one was missing. Katrine frowned. Did she destroy the one with her and Célestine completely? But the broken frame lay flat and when she lifted it, the picture was gone.
Only Charles Miller could have removed it. Katrine smiled to herself. She was not going to harass him to return it. He could keep the memento, take it with him wherever the battleground would be.
It was time to go to the Coeur de Lion and make preparations for the evening. She hoped that Miller's troops would support them. They could use an infusion of American dollars now that there would be no more Reichmarks. Katrine gave a satisfied sigh as she left her home. The mop up operation had been completed. The Americans knew their work; they had protocols in place. On the outskirts of the town, they had incinerated the bodies of the Germans. She was not sorry to see the end of Jürgen Schult. More than anything, he represented all that was evil about the Reich.
It was just one block to the restaurant. There was movement about the town, young men and boys riding their cycles, women walking towards the cafes and bakery. She saw many children, realising with a pang that they were still on school vacation. Célestine would have been with her now, on vacation, going to Maestro Sargozy for her music lessons.
For a moment only she allowed the pain to flood her.
"Katrine! Katrine!"
She looked up and saw Berry and Brigitte hurrying towards her. Katrine frowned. They were holding hands! What was happening? These two fought constantly, with Berry always claiming it was because Brigitte loved him but wouldn't admit it. They were smiling! Had they made peace at last?
"Ah, qu'est-ce qui se passe? Berry and Brigitte engaged in a truce, for once!" she said, hugging Brigitte when they reached her.
"We are engaged, but not in a truce you think of!" cried Brigitte breathlessly. "Congratulate us!"
"Oh, congratulations. What brought this on?"
"She has finally said she will marry me!" cried Berry. "I have waited all my life for this."
Berry was beaming from ear to ear, his joy boundless! Katrine sobered. It could have been her pregnant. Schult was never a cautious man in her bed. The two young people saw her expression. Berry's hand covered Brigitte's swollen belly.
"This is my son here, Katrine, and one day he shall ride the Tour de France!"
Katrine smiled with relief. She was happy for Brigitte who had sacrificed much and who deserved happiness. Brigitte had told her about Robert Davis who was also here in St. Clair with the troops. That was in the past now. People moved on. It was an inevitability of life. She should remember that about her life with Joseph.
She was also moving on. It was hard, but it was inevitable.
"Then I am very happy for you."
"Monseigneur Girardeau is prepared to perform the ceremony. But we do not want to marry in the cathedral."
"He said he is okay with the idea!" Brigitte piped up.
"He said he understood, about us, about Brigitte, Katrine," Berry added with a sober air.
"Do you have any other place in mind?"
"Why, naturally! The Coeur de Lion!" cried Berry, his excitement so infectious that Katrine felt the pleasure build in her too.
"Well then, the Coeur de Lion it is"
Eugene Linklater scuffed his boot on the ground outside the door of Sandrine's home. He and Private Ohlsson were assigned to protect Sandrine Desmarais, sharing sentry duty. If Lieutenant Davis saw either one of them in dereliction of that duty, they'd be put on report. That was not as bad as being rebuked in Davis's famous Brooklyn slang. The man was American aristocracy, but he always tried to speak like the gangsters of New York. He should be a goddam actor in a goddam movie.
He'd sent Ohlsson off early, after working out a timetable for the two of them. Ohlsson complained about being in the night shift, but he'd waived it.
"How about I give you two more packs of cigarettes?"
"You never share!"
"Were you blind, Ohlsson? Didn't you even look at Sandrine Desmarais?"
He'd clicked his tongue impatiently. Ohlsson never talked about girls the way the rest of their gang did. He was inclined to think Ohlsson wasn't into girls, but surely that didn't stop him from at least looking at them, for crying out loud?
He'd liked Sandrine the minute he laid eyes on her. He knew their time in St. Clair was going to be short. But Los Angeles, California was a long way away. He might not even survive this war, though Lord knew it was going to be heavy going when they left St. Clair. They still had to advance to Paris and from there into real enemy territory.
He'd walked with her, bursting a path open between the men who'd wanted to shave their heads. What a goddam spineless thing to do. Women and men fell in love, didn't matter how different their backgrounds were, or their nationalities, like Othello and Desdemona. Last book he'd done in high school. Never mind that their love was doomed. Sandrine could not close her heart when she fell for a German. Maybe he was a handsome bugger like Davis or Captain Miller.
When she stopped at her door, she looked at him and smiled. His heart did a double flip. Her lips were rosy-red and her eyes liquid-golden. Her auburn hair was long and wavy.
"Merci de nous avoir sauvées," she said.
He didn't understand a word she said, but it felt like she was saying 'thank you' just by the tone of her voice. When he frowned, she tried in English.
"Thank you?"
"Yes. And you are welcome. I am Eugene Linklater. What is your name?"
"Sandrine. Sandrine Desmarais."
"We will remain here, outside your door, in case those bastards come for you again."
"Batards?"
"Yes, exactly. Batards!"
Sandrine had approached her front door, which had opened and an elderly man waited for her there. He thought it was her grandfather, for he was in tears when he hugged her like a long lost child. Then he said merci boucoup before entering the house again.
Linklater stayed until past twelve that night when Ohlsson came on duty. He hadn't yet seen any of the Frenchmen around. He'd gone to his tent and couldn't sleep for a while, even after smoking three cigarettes.
He came on duty at 0700. He'd already smoked two cigarettes. Only at around 0930 did the door open again. Sandrine came out and looked surprised, like she was asking, "You again?"
"Hi!" he started.
Sandrine replied with a hesitant "Hi."
"I must walk with you, okay? Where are you going?"
"Boulangerie."
"Bou - what?"
"Bake," she said by way of explaining.
"Oh. Bakery. Boulangerie. I should remember that."
She began walking while he kept abreast with her, his rifle held like a lovable teddy-bear. So they kept up their stilted conversation which began flowing a little more as they learned new words in French and English. When she returned home, he went inside with her. On the way they passed one of the men who wanted to shave her head. She'd hissed at him while he, Eugene, simply pointed his rifle at the man's crotch.
"I hope we'll be here long enough for the women in the town to take a stand against those gutless cowards," he barked.
"Quoi?"
"Don't worry, my dear. He got the message."
"Oh."
"Say, you want to walk around the town with me? Until tonight, then we can visit the Coeur - something."
"Coeur de Lion."
"Yes. That."
So they walked about the town. She pointed out buildings of interest, like the library, the inside of the cathedral with its stained glass windows, the small winery where they pressed their own grapes from the wine estates in the region.
Later he held her hand. Sandrine glanced at him and smiled. He felt his insides flip again. He was going to be really, really sorry to leave St. Clair.
The Coeur de Lion was buzzing with activity tonight. To Katrine it was so different from a week ago when German soldiers sat around drunk with wine, their smoke filling the restaurant and the ever present threat of Jürgen Schult making demands on her.
On those days she had been mostly worried, but kept up a brave, smiling face.
Now the war was over, for St. Clair at least. They would have peace and work was in progress to rebuild and renovate some of the buildings that had been damaged. It was a jolly crowd, the Americans singing ribald songs whenever Solange was on a break.
She was happy for Solange, who could not keep her eyes off Lamine. When had that happened? The continuous spats between Brigitte and Berry were always out in the open, though their announcement of engagement and marriage did come as a surprise to her. But Lamine, always very private about his personal life, never gave any indication that he was interested in Solange. Katrine shook her head, incredulous at the turn of events.
She looked around the restaurant. In another corner sat four infantrymen. She recognised Robert Davis. Brigitte described him as the handsomest American this side of the Atlantic. With his shocking blue eyes and almost white blond hair he stood out in the Coeur de Lion, and in Berry's words, really like a foreigner. They were deep in conversation, the one with a cigarette dangling from his mouth gesticulating furiously. The other two couldn't seem to stop laughing.
Berry and Brigitte were sitting together holding hands. They had eyes only for each other. They would marry the day before the troops were to leave St. Clair. They had been joined this afternoon in a quiet civil ceremony by the town magistrate.
She glanced around from time to time, hoping to see one face, but she kept smiling, talking to a patron here and sitting next to one at another table for a brief conversation. But her heart thundered every time a new patron in uniform arrived in the restaurant. She stood at the counter and Lamine, busy shining glasses as usual, leaned over. Right at that moment Solange launched into another song.
There's a somebody I'm longing to see
I hope that he turns out to be
Someone who'll watch over me
I'm a little lamb who's lost in the wood
Someone who'll watch over me...
She loved the song, loved how it fitted with Brigitte and Berry's love story. Sometimes they had heard it over their radio in Paris. Célestine had listened to it with rapt attention. The music was melodious, given more sensuality by Solange's purring voice.
Katrine's eyes darted around the restaurant, sighing as she lifted her glass of wine contemplatively to her lips.
"He is not coming?"
"Schult is dead."
"Shot dead by the very man whose presence you seek here."
She wanted to damn Lamine for being right. Without looking at him, she retorted, "Perhaps he has things to do..."
"Then I am right. Captain Miller is a busy man."
"Indeed."
"But you were hoping he'd be here."
There was a note to Lamine's voice which clearly suggested that she not deny his assertion.
Katrine sighed. She really hoped Charles would be here tonight. She had invited him and his platoon members who were available to enjoy an evening in the Coeur de Lion . What could he be occupied with right now? It was already past ten. Not late for a restaurant by any French standard. The patrons were still enjoying themselves, smoke wafted up in the room, wine flowed and American dollars were rolling in.
"You are right, as usual, Lamine," she said, taking another sip from her glass.
"Mon Dieu!" cried Brigitte Beaumont when she paused in her conversation long enough to look at the entrance. "If it were not that I'm marrying you, Berry, I'd have him. But then he's taken," she said in an awed voice.
"Who took him?" Berry asked.
"Stupide!" Brigitte cried softly, punching his arm hard.
Berry rubbed his arm. It was good being punched again by Brigitte. Of course he knew the captain of the regiment was already taken. Beautiful Katrine and handsome Captain Miller. Everyone knew, from that day he lifted Katrine at the fountain like she weighed nothing after Miller put a bullet through Schult's head. Those who were near heard the tenderness in the captain's voice when he held her in his arms. Others said that she looked at him with love in her eyes before she said "Charles".
At the table where Davis, Linklater, Compton and Longman sat, Compton glanced at the entrance to see who had entered.
"Holy mackerel!" he hissed softly. "Lookee there! Captain Miller looking like General Eisenhower already!"
Captain Charles Miller entered the Coeur de Lion quietly. If he had hoped to make an unannounced entry, that hope was dashed when he heard Linklater whistling through his teeth. He glared at Linklater who stopped instantly.
He'd decided to wear his dress jacket over freshly pressed trousers, the red diamond on his left shoulder and left side of his garrison cap looking extra red. He removed the cap and held it in his hand. The restaurant was full, with almost all tables occupied.
Katrine had seen everyone else gawking at the door when she too, turned to look. She stifled a little gasp. A warmth swamped her. Charles look very military to her. He was dressed differently from his men, perhaps the dress uniform officers wore. She knew about the red diamond which Lamine had explained earlier was the insignia of their regiment. Miller was looking for a vacant table and there was none. Only one, near a window, had one occupant. She knew the middle aged gentleman. So she walked over to him.
"Please, Monsieur Montand, I am sure Monsieur Beaumont would love your company."
"I see your rescuer has arrived, Mme du Pléssis. I reserve my table for you with great honour!" Montand said before he saluted and made his way to Brigitte's grandfather. Then she moved towards Captain Miller, outwardly calm although her heart was racing.
She touched his elbow, his eyes widening when he saw her. She'd been standing almost hidden at the counter. Charlie took a deep breath, trying to prevent his heart from hammering so hard. She was dressed in a white tuxedo, her hair in waves about her face like Ingrid Bergman.
"I thought you might not come," she said.
"You look...beautiful," he said as he allowed her to guide him to a table. When he sat down, he was surprised that she sat down opposite him. "I - " he began, pausing suddenly, "I wasn't going to come."
Katrine raised her hand and a waiter appeared from nowhere, it seemed. "A glass of Picard Shiraz for Captain Miller," she ordered. The waiter nodded and drifted off to Lamine behind the counter. Katrine touched Charles's hand. She felt suddenly afraid.
"Why not, Charles?" she asked, giving his name the French inflection.
Solange had finished her song. One of the men walked over to the pianist and after a few words, Claude nodded. The infantryman had a harmonica in his hand. The soft strains of an Irving Berlin song filled the air.
"Why not?" Katrine asked again.
Charles appeared unaware of the bustle around them, of the music that played softly in the background, of the eyes of his men on the two of them. He remained silent, only lifting his head to the waiter who brought him his glass of shiraz. He held the glass, twirling the stem absently as he looked at the superlative red-burgundy liquid.
"I was engaged once, to my high school sweetheart. Her name is Lucy." Charles paused, a faraway look in his eyes. "I was at the University of Washington and after that, West Point - "
"West Point?"
"Military Academy."
Katrine nodded her understanding.
"We wrote letters..."
Katrine could see how the memory pained him. "What happened to her?" she asked quietly.
"After West Point I joined the 5th Armoured Infantry Division, was stationed far from home, in other countries. One day I returned home on a month long leave. I wanted to marry Lucy."
Charles wore no wedding band as she saw with Robert Davis. Still, some men never wore a band.
'What happened?" she asked, frowning, wondering where the conversation was leading to.
Charles took a sip of the wine, then put the glass down. "Lucy was married and pregnant. No one in the family told me in their letters..."
She saw his brow knitting furiously together before visibly controlling himself. The memory of his fiancée marrying someone else disturbed him greatly. But surely people moved on, especially when in the flush of youthful love, like Brigitte and Robert Davis? Even she had accepted that Joseph would never ever return. She had to move on. Perhaps she had already started as she looked into the pain-filled eyes of Captain Charles Miller.
"Over great distances, never knowing when your letters would arrive or hoping to receive any from home. Did you blame her?" Katrine asked.
"I was angry, blinded by my fury because my mother and my sister didn't have the courage to tell me the truth. They tried to stop me..."
"Doing what?"
"Injuring them both."
Katrine gasped softly, but Charlie raised his hand and smiled tightly.
"Eventually I forgave her and my brother - "
"Your brother? Lucy married your brother?"
"I almost killed him. I felt like a hound. Edward was crippled as a child through polio. He...walks with difficulty."
"I am sorry to hear that, Charles."
"Don't be. They have a beautiful son whom they named after me. They also have a little girl named Winonah."
"But the memory still pains you, I can see that."
"I thought a lot about it today, you know? I lost Lucy because I was never a constant in her life."
"Charles?"
"I - " he began, "I am developing feelings...for you, Katrine. I don't want those feelings. We leave here in a few days to resume hostilities against the Germans. Paris is our next objective. I - "
Katrine leaned forward and covered his hand with hers.
"You are afraid you will not survive this war..." There was a flash behind Katrine's eyelids as she remembered Joseph screaming that she save herself. Joseph knew he would not survive. Yet here was another man who was fast creeping into her own heart. "You do not want to lose your heart?"
"I will never see you again. Writing letters will not be enough."
"You are no longer in the flush of youth anymore. Neither am I. Perhaps letters are what will bind us, don't you think?" she asked, her voice hopeful.
Charles gave her a stricken look before he rose quickly to his feet, grabbed his garrison cap and strode purposefully out of the Coeur de Lion. Katrine got up and moved back to the counter where Lamine waited for her.
"Let me guess - he will go into battle and die heroically on the battlefield leaving a grieving loved one - you - pining for him."
"Mon Dieu! How can you be so right?" Katrine asked. Then she coolly boxed her distress and began moving about from table to table, instructing everyone to enjoy themselves as long as they left their troubles outside.
It was long after twelve when Katrine finally closed the door of the Coeur de Lion. She was exhausted, brought on mostly by her acute disappointment that Captain Charles Miller had left so early with no indication that he wanted to have anything further to do with her. He admitted that he felt something he didn't want to feel primarily because he'd been burned before as well as the prospect of not surviving the war.
Paris was the Americans' next stop, a sprawling city with a much heavier German presence. Loss of life was always an absolute fact of war. Yet she sensed in him a great soldier, an indestructible warrior who fought with valour and distinction. He would survive, of that she was certain. But love and war made young people impetuous and made the more mature cautious. She couldn't blame him, yet she was disappointed. She wanted to get to know him better. There were so many facets about him, so many things that made him so enigmatic but drew him to her.
Her own heart had already capitulated. Joseph would always hold a special place there. But like so many people who, separated from their loved ones through death or distance, moved on with their lives, so she had to as well. It had pained her when Jürgen Schult cruelly used her memory of Joseph to bed her. Surely she too would be graced by God for a new chance at happiness?
She walked in the dark towards her home. Along the way she could see men from Charles' regiment standing guard at the homes of the women who had been identified by Gilles Rimbaud and his cronies to shave their heads. She grinned. Another brilliant strategy of the captain of the regiment. He would tell her they were simply taking precautions. It made her feel safe. She wondered if anyone was posted outside her door. Last night Charles had stayed with her most of the time when she was still recovering from her injuries. In fact she felt very little pain now. Perhaps there was someone, she just hadn't noticed. Maybe Charles...
Sighing, she reached her front door and turned the knob to enter her lounge. As always it was dark whenever she returned, but now she frowned. Music played softly, a Chopin nocturne. She switched on the light, gasping sharply when she saw Charles Miller sitting on her couch. Warmth seared through her body seeing him sitting there looking a little forlorn.
He stood up but did not move from his position. His eyes were heated, his lips moved but no sound issued from them.
"Charles?"
"I - I could not stay away," he stammered.
Her heart sang. Slowly she moved closer to him and stood on tiptoe to touch his cheek with her hand, his eyes closing at the soft touch. Her heart hammered, throbbing so strongly that each pulse was a pain and joy at the same time. Her breath must have deserted her for each intake was so painful that a soft cry escaped her.
"Look at me," she pleaded. "Please."
Charles opened his eyes and gave a little sob. He looked vulnerable, a raw expression in his eyes.
"Let your heart speak, Charles. Let your heart tell you it is as it should be."
The pain in his eyes seemed to dissolve, hope flickering until it flared brightly. He touched her cheek with trembling fingers. The fear had left him.
"It is as it should be…" he said softly.
"Les choses sont comme elles doivent être," she whispered.
He groaned as he pulled her closer, uttering another sob as he lowered his head. She could feel his breath on her face, warm, warm breath that carried with it the promise of a kiss. She drowned a little as his lips touched hers, a slow, searing, brief caress that burst in a shower of stars upon her closed eyes. Then he brushed her lips again, a soft growl rising from his chest as her mouth opened under his.
"Katrine...Katrine..." he whispered and his voice filled her, entering every dark corner of her being where only pain and sorrow had dwelled for so long, giving light and pulsing joy. She realised with wonder that tears were flowing when his thumb caressed her cheek. He broke contact and in her daze she cried at the loss of his touch.
"It is as it should be," he said hoarsely as he lifted her and carried her to her bedroom.
He couldn't help himself. Katrine was a siren, a kitten, a tigress, a beautiful woman whose very nearness drove him crazy with want. He had tried to keep away, tried to save himself from more pain, greater sorrow. If he kept away he'd be safe. But he didn't want to be safe.
He undressed her slowly, enjoying her soft murmur as he removed her white jacket, his hand grazing her full breast, her nipples springing erect at the merest whisper of a touch. A muffled cry as his mouth covered her nipple. Another agonised cry when he unbuttoned her satin blouse until that too, slipped inelegantly to the floor, working away at the straps of her bra. Her breasts sprang free. With a cry he buried his face against her bosom, his head spinning in a vortex of pleasure.
"Charles...Charles..." she kept whispering, his name sounding like a litany.
How had he been divested so soon from his own dress jacket? And his shirt? And his freshly pressed trousers? Did their movements harmonise so that they were hardly aware they were undressing one another? Fingers unhurried, assertive, dancing in a concert of movement in which, like an orchestral counterpoint, their raiment connected with the floor. He gazed at her skin, translucent, creamy, soft to the touch.
He breathed her and it filled him, a sensation of swirling thickness in his head that caused an inexplicable feeling of vertigo. He trailed his mouth down her bosom, across the plane of her belly, paused to dip his tongue into her navel. This time a cry of ecstasy escaped her as she gripped his head, trying to move away from the acute sensual impulses, yet dying to experience the waves of pleasure again and again. His lips burned her skin as they explored and extracted her willingness to reveal her innermost desires to him.
"Charles...oh, Charles..."
He was on his knees, felt her shuddering when his mouth reached her core. He touched her there, lapped against her, feeling a throbbing against his tongue. Then suddenly he rose to his feet and lifted her high against him, his arousal pressing painfully into her. She threw her head back in delight.
He let her slide down then laid her on the bed and looked at her exquisite body, every nerve in him wanting to connect with hers. She was beauty, she was his, the thought raced through him as he lay next to her, shifting so that her legs parted. Charles looked deeply into her eyes that were warm and wanton. Her lips parted, her heat bouncing off her and enveloping him.
With a strangled cry he joined his body with hers.
He dreamed. The dream filled every pore and sinew of his body. Dark apparitions that would not show him their faces. He tried running after them, to halt their darting between trees in a dark forest. One lamp burned; high from a pylon it showered its light in a corona across the street.
Then there were other phantoms, darker than the first who in turn chased them. Run, run, my love!
They ran, but soon the picture changed to a car. It rained. It was dark again. A phantom behind the tree. The phantom waved to them, beckoning them to catch it. Wet road, wheels slipping, rushing to the phantom behind the tree.
"Winonah!"
Charles rocked up, gasping for air. It was dark, but a moment later a bedside lamp flooded the room in light. He looked around him, dazed. He saw Katrine and blinked several times as if he struggled to recognise her.
"Charles? Charles! You dreamed. It is alright. Shhh..."
Too distraught to speak, he hauled her into his arms and held her, shuddering for a long time until it eased away. Katrine caressed his arm, his cheek that felt damp. Charles expelled a deep sigh. He slumped against the pillow and she leaned over him, resting on her elbow.
"You had a nightmare. Want to tell me about it?" she ventured, knowing that she too had had nightmares in which figures were not defined but formless entities that haunted her.
"My sister Winonah. Edward and I doted on her. She was the youngest. Open, loving, with a love of life that infected everyone around her. She was like that, inspiring people."
"Then is that not a good memory?"
"I buried my sister and her husband a year ago. They were so young. I was on duty in Iceland and flew home. They died in a car crash not far from their home."
"I am so very sorry to hear that, Charles!"
"I dream often of them, especially Winonah. Know what her last words to me were?"
Katrine shook her head.
"You are under orders to stay alive."
"Then she died."
"Yes. Edward and Lucy named their baby girl Winonah, in her memory."
Charles lay, gazing at Katrine with his heart in his eyes. It was always difficult to speak of the tragedies in his life, yet he poured his heart out to her. Sighing, he pulled her into his embrace.
"That is not all, is it?" Katrine whispered.
"Their baby Evan was only a year old when his parents died. They named me Evan's legal guardian."
"You have a son?"
Charles stilled for a long time. Then he turned his face to her, seeing her eyes welling up. She'd lost a child. Evan had lost his Mama.
"Yes..."
Then Katrine wept and Charles Miller held her until her tears stopped.
"One day," he began, "the gods will smile on us and grant us the happiness we crave for."
5th Infantry Division
10th regiment
Company A
July 25 1944
Dear Edward
I am still alive and well and kicking [some Jerry's butt]! I'm very happy to know that little Evan is doing well. I plan on adopting him when I return home. I like the thought of calling him my son. Winonah and Lansing would have wanted that.
We arrived on the Normandy coast of Sugar Beach and made our way south towards Coumond where we assisted the 1st Infantry Division to liberate that town. We suffered no casualties in Coumond. Our target was Vidouville where the Germans stationed their Panzer Division. We were assisted in the air by our 101st Airborne Division. It was heavy going, my brother. We lost good men in Vidouville, including one of my best. The young man died in my arms.
After the battle at Vidouville we received new orders and guess what? The 5th Armoured Infantry has been assigned to the 3rd Army under General George S. Patton. Boy, am I glad to be working under such a great man! I'm sure you can see the movement of the Allied Forces towards the German stronghold in Berlin and the liberation of the camps. It is inevitable and we'll be right in the middle of it. There will be no rest until Germany is defeated.
Edward, I found Katrine.
Charlie paused his writing, nipping the pen as he stared thoughtfully out the window. A lone American flag hung over the fireplace, the desk filled with his documents and reports. The radio had been fixed so they had radio communication with Allied High Command.
Katrine.
He was not ever going to be able to sever the bond that had formed between them. He couldn't stop himself, knowing that if he did, he would have continued on his journey forever haunted by Katrine's blue eyes and her sad smile. It was a choice he made, whatever the consequences. Katrine had already passed through such a rite of passage when she lost her husband and child. She knew of consequences, living by them and being more ready than him to face them.
He pictured her in her bed. He had woken with her lying snugly in his arms, staring up at him, a finger tracing the scar he'd picked up at Vidouville. The night was theirs, a night filled with love, their soft murmurings, his dreams, her dreams, pain, tears, sadness, joy.
"Hey..." He imagined he saw a glint of uncertainty in her eyes. He kissed her gently. "What is it?"
"Will you come again tonight?"
"How can I stay away now?"
"Thank you," she murmured, then buried herself against him, revelling in the feel of his body. He couldn't ignore the softness, how pliant her body was, how willing to feel their closeness again.
"Katrine..." he'd groaned as he took her again, only emerging more than an hour later when they sat down to a light breakfast.
He thought how she whimpered helplessly as he carried her over the edge. Afterwards, Katrine had wept quietly and he asked her whether he had not pleasured her enough. She told him that for the first time since her husband was taken away from her, she could feel again. He had unlocked what had been encased in ice for so long. She'd always thought that she would never again experience that complete sense of surrender to another man. What could he tell Edward? That he and Katrine made love so beautifully that he understood for the first time what it really meant to be one with another person?
Katrine was not in Paris as we had all assumed, but in a town called St. Clair. Katrine's husband was Jewish. Two years ago he was betrayed in Paris. Joseph and their daughter were captured from their home, just as Katrine was returning from an assignment as a Resistance leader. Both husband and daughter have subsequently died. They were shot dead during transit to one of the concentration camps. Katrine and a Senegalese soldier friend made every attempt to trace them until late in December, when she was given final confirmation of their deaths.
He remembered - was it only three days ago? - how demented she had been in her home telling him what had happened to Joseph and Célestine. How she finally decided to come to St. Clair.
Her story is a sad one, my brother, but please let your Harvard colleagues know she is doing fine in the circumstances. She is running a restaurant called the "Coeur de Lion". You might think what is a scientist doing running a restaurant. She lost her job at the university because they wanted women to stay home and raise their kids. The country is run by the Germans as you know, Vichy government under Pétain merely a puppet government. I feel certain after France is liberated, Katrine will be reinstated in her post.
Katrine is very beautiful! Beautiful and tiny and appealing, like Mama, but unbelievably resourceful, independent, strong and feisty and courageous and determined! It was a real battle of wills between us. She wanted to lead the fight in St. Clair but I told her, "I am the war you called to do the job for you!"
After she acceded to my leadership, well, she's French! I have to keep my wits about me. I fear my wits will be surely tested as I get to know her better. But I am a soldier, you understand? When I leave St. Clair in a few days it will all be over, I'm afraid!
We will rejoin the rest of my regiment and then head for Paris. Pray for our men, Edward. The war is not over and we cannot guarantee coming out of this alive.
Give my best to Mama and Henry and kiss little Evan for me.
Love
Charles
END CHAPTER TEN