CHAPTER THIRTEEN
We'll always have Paris - September 1944
Katrine du Pléssis was a little on edge, mainly because she'd arrived on the day that the Paris mobs had gone wild shaving women's heads. She'd arrived early that morning in her old Peugeot when it was still dark in St. Clair. She'd heard news on the radio about the scandalous behaviour of the mob - men and women who humiliated those accused of sleeping with the enemy.
So she'd kept indoors, not daring to wander the streets like a snooping gossipmonger looking for outrageous activities. She was curious, she had to admit, but the idea of going out to stand by and watch women being degraded, stuck in the craw.
It was good to be home, to do some tidying, although her neighbour had kindly gotten in help to maintain her home. A thrill had coursed through her when she stopped in front of her house. All the bad memories she'd had about Paris had receded during the last six weeks. There were very, very few shadows now. Since she'd met Charles Anson Miller, she'd learnt to love again, to be spontaneous.
Charles.
How could she not fall in love with him? How would she ever be able to forget him? His letter all but confirmed his feelings for her, knowing that if he'd read her letter the day they left St. Clair, that she had expressed the same. Even now, just thinking about him, she imagined his masculine smell, his ruggedness, the hard planes of his body, his strength, his kindness, his sense of justice.
She missed him desperately.
She had to come to Paris. She was always going to return to the city of her birth. She'd left the Coeur de Lion in the capable hands of Lamine and Solange, who would run it for her for a percentage of the profit. They looked happy, she thought, her resentment that they were always in one another's company just fleeting. She was only hoping that she'd see Charles now that she was back in Paris. It would be almost a month since they'd last been together.
Lamine had told her that he and Solange planned to marry soon. Katrine was happy for them, especially Lamine who'd had such a traumatic life. They deserved every happiness the gods could bestow on them.
It was getting colder now in the evenings, autumn rearing its head and with it, bitter weather and early darkness. On an impulse she'd lit a fire in the great hearth in the lounge. There was a warm glow about the room. She'd dimmed the main light and then wound up the old phonograph. She had a good collection of recordings. She couldn't care whatever happened to Jürgen Schult's collection. If they trampled them to pieces, then good riddance. Seconds later the strains of a violin sonata - one of Célestine's favourites - filled the air. If only Charles were here to share everything with her!
It was very late and after she'd had supper and relaxed for almost an hour in her tub, she walked into the lounge again, too restless to sleep. She sat in the deep chair that had been Joseph's favourite where he used to sit with Célestine on his lap and listen to her reading. Then Katrine jumped up and sat on the big couch, so deep and soft she could drown in it. Her face glowed from the heat of the embers in the fireplace. She played another recording, this time Debussy's Clair de Lune.
She gave a deep sigh and allowed her thoughts to stray to Charles.
She wondered what he was doing now. She knew his regiment had fought off the Germans in the city, helping the French Army gain victory. Charles was a true leader, a hardened fighter, one who cared about his troops. What if he had been shot and seriously injured? She gave a little cry of distress at that thought. Charles would survive this war, she was convinced of that. That was just the kind of warrior he was.
Would he come to her and assure her once again of his love, the words falling like pearls from his mouth? Her eyes flew open, to a spot on the mantelpiece. Pride of place was the framed sketch he'd done of the eagles. Next to it stood a studio photograph of Célestine, her beautiful child, taken a few months before her capture. Katrine had taken down the picture of Joseph and stored it with the rest of his things in the basement.
Joseph would have wanted her to get on with her life.
She was grateful for the blessings of second chances.
When the music stopped, she rose reluctantly to put on another recording. At that moment there was a loud knock on her door.
Hear heart beat so wildly that she could feel the throbbing in her ears. What if the Resistance fighters came to her door? What if they knew of her liaison with Schult? A moment of anxiety assailed her when she walked to the window, moving the curtain only slightly, to check who was outside. She gave a loud gasp.
Then she rushed to open the door.
She was unprepared for what she saw.
Charles stood, leaning against the jamb, as dejected a man as any she had seen who had ever lost something precious, or witnessed unspeakable pain, heartache and degradation. He didn't move from where he leaned against the jamb in a precarious position. There was a bloodstain on his right sleeve. Shivering uncontrollably, he gazed at her, unseeing, the evidence of it only in his hands and fingers.
Only after a moment, when he could focus, did he recognise her.
"Katrine..."
"Oh, Charles!" she cried his name softly before he pitched drunkenly forward and she caught him in her arms. She led him inside towards the couch where she made him sit down. He slumped against the soft cushions, keeping his gaze on her. She caressed his cheek, frowning when she felt how warm it was. But she'd seen his jeep through the window.
"I'll be back, ma chérie," she said softly, then rushed outside.
She shook her head when she saw he'd left the key in the ignition and removed it quickly. Then she looked on the back seat of the vehicle and saw his duffel and rucksack, his helmet and rifle slung through one of the loops. Sighing, she took the heavy duffel first and dropped it in the small entranceway, then ran back out to get the rest of his gear.
Charles had not moved since she'd left him. He looked distracted, unable to utter a word. What was wrong with him? she thought with growing concern. He wasn't ill like she had seen Lamine who'd almost died of his wound. She touched his hand this time, but there was no response to her touch.
"Charles?"
He heard her, for he turned his head to look at her. Katrine frowned, feeling a little helpless. Then she wondered what Joseph would have done.
When a patient looks distressed beyond measure, Katrine, it means that he harbours a great torment but is unable to speak of it. Sometimes it is better just to hold that person to you and wait.
Katrine took a deep breath, then she calmly took Charles's hand.
"Come," she said quietly in a comforting voice.
He rose to his feet allowing, allowing her to lead him. Katrine walked down the passage to her bedroom. She didn't switch on the light but felt her way to the bed. She turned down the bed, keeping the warm blanket she'd put there earlier because the nights were getting colder. He stood still while she removed his jacket and hung it over a chair. Next she unbuttoned his shirt and placed that too on the chair, leaving his khaki tank top on. Only then did she see the dressing on his upper arm. The wound had bled through at some point so she made a mental note to apply a fresh dressing later. Katrine tried not to show her own distress at his silence. She removed his boots and trousers, concerned that he showed little reaction.
Katrine made him lie on his side on the bed and pulled the blankets over him, then she spooned herself to him, sliding her hand over his chest and pressed herself against him. His hand covered hers, the first independent thing he'd done since she led him into the house.
She allowed his nearness to fill her, and pressed her hand firmer against him to let him feel she wasn't going away. From time to time she pressed her lips into his back.
For Charles was still shuddering; he had been shaking since he fell into her arms at the front door and it had continued unabated, though she felt rather than saw it. How long had he been like this? she wondered. What had he experienced during his combats? It was impossible to ask him what ailed him, for she knew he would not speak. He acted like someone in extreme shock. How could she offer solace to the man she loved who looked so devastated?
So she began speaking to him, her voice a whisper.
"You told me once how your father told you stories his mother used to tell him. She was a Native American, you said. You grew up listening to the tales of the warrior. There was one story your father told you. I wonder if you still remember telling it to me. I told you it was a beautiful story, of a warrior and the eagle...
So Katrine spoke to Charles in her native French. The words fell from her lips in gentle cadences and they floated on her breathing against his back and entered his body so that they filled him.
She told him about the great warrior and the eagle. She spoke about the warrior's courage, how his tribe respected him. Then one day during a battle against another tribe, a giant eagle circled above the battleground until the enemy had been vanquished. The eagle flapped its magnificent wings and the warrior was astonished by the size of its wingspan. He could not stop looking at the mighty bird of prey and it seemed to him as if the eagle was trying to convey to him a message, as if it said, "Follow me..."
It was then that the brave warrior instructed his tribesmen to return to their village so that he could follow the eagle to unknown lands. He followed the great bird across the widest rivers, over great lakes, over deserts dried by the unforgiving sun, over mountains great and small. Once, the eagle turned and spotted the warrior lagging far behind him and he asked, "Shall I carry you upon my wings?" For the eagle saw that the warrior had become weary and dispirited. When the warrior tried to speak, words failed him for his mouth had dried, so his sorrow increased. The eagle landed where the warrior had fallen. "Come," said the eagle, "let me carry you across the great waters and the tallest mountains." The warrior felt the surge of air beneath him as the eagle took flight. Up, up, up he soared far above the clouds. The warrior rested his head wearily against the eagle's back and felt his whole body transform to peace.
When the men of his tribe cast their eyes towards the heavens, they saw the great eagle, shielding the bright sun with their hands. And it seemed to them that the eagle and the warrior had become one.
Katrine felt how the shudders slowly, very slowly, began to subside. She released her hand from his and caressed his hair, his cheek, pressing her lips against his back. She slipped her hand back in his and continued speaking to him in soft tones, even though trying to keep the tears from her voice. She told him many little tales and legends that night, of wolves who howl their lonely songs to the night sky, about dolphins and little darting creatures and scorpions, of tribal dances to let the rain come, of dances to rejoice in the hunt. When she moved her hand to touch his lips, he responded so lightly, so briefly that it could have been a whisper. Her heart soared.
Katrine kept her hand against his chest, felt the quickening of his heart beat, a strong, healthy rhythm. Charles gave her hand a squeeze.
"I love you, Charles," she whispered against his back.
Katrine's voice filled his being, her words, their softness, the gentle cadences of her language touched his echoes and consumed them. One by one they began to dissipate, the echoes leaving smaller echoes until they too disappeared into the solace of her voice.
She lay spooned closely to him, and her nearness brought the final wakefulness in him. He had been deeply cold inside, tormented by those images that wouldn't leave, mocking him unceasingly. Now Katrine held him to her and he could revel in her closeness. She didn't ask questions, simply took him and knew what to do. Speaking words would have tortured him more. They had been his punishment, his head and mouth refusing to comply to his anguished commands.
Her voice dragged him back to sanity, to a clarity of mind that rippled through his body and brought him peace. He covered her hand, the immediacy of the touch so welcome he gripped her tighter to him. He felt the deep sigh that escaped her, her breath warm against his back.
How long had she spoken? Hours? He couldn't remember. But the harmony, the stillness of his body, the absence of the echoes that had caused him to shut down, created in him a different kind of drowning. Her voice had drifted off, he realised. His eyes drooped finally and sleep overpowered him in helpless oblivion.
Charlie awoke to total silence, with light streaming through the window, throwing Katrine's body in soft silhouette. She was still sleeping deeply, so he got out of the bed very quietly and went in search of his bags. Even through his agitated condition of last night, he sensed that she had gone outside and brought them in.
He found the bags in the small entrance hall of the house. To his left he spotted another room with a single bed. He entered the room which appeared too spartan to have been the bedroom of a six or seven year old child. It must have been Lamine's room. He unpacked a few things, desperately needing a shower and shave. Katrine had practically undressed him last night. He had no shame nor embarrassment. They were lovers. He knew her body as well as she knew his.
Finding the things he needed he looked for the bathroom which he located near the back of the house. Half an hour later he was dressed in a shirt and army trousers with cargo pockets. He tiptoed into Katrine's bedroom, staring down at the sleeping figure. She looked angelic. In fact, last night he thought she was an angel standing in the doorway, with a halo of light above her head. She must have kept up her soft whispering for hours and then had fallen asleep from sheer exhaustion. He didn't want to wake her yet, so he headed for the kitchen. He was no stranger to cooking thanks to Mama and Pop who made the boys do tours of duty in the scullery. He'd fix breakfast for them later, but right now he needed coffee.
He felt much, much better than yesterday. He had very hazy recollections of what had happened to him from the moment he'd threatened to put Elsevier on mess hall duty if he didn't relinquish the keys of the jeep. He'd driven around the city for hours, realising after the first hour that he was hopelessly lost. It was a miracle he'd made it to Katrine's house considering how spaced out he'd been, a condition brought on by the concussion he suffered.
With a mug of steaming coffee he walked back to the bedroom, only to see Katrine easing into wakefulness, twitching her nose as the aroma of the coffee assailed her. She lay a few seconds adjusting to waking up before her eyes connected with the mug in his hand.
"I hope that is for me, Charles."
"Of course. Coffee...not my thing anyway. Ask Mama."
She sat up in bed and looked at him for long moments. He met her gaze and didn't waver from it. The dolphins, the echoes and their little echoes were all gone. Katrine looked beautiful in the morning, even with her hair a little mussed. She had been extraordinary during the night.
"You can see me," she said softly, her voice filled with wonder.
"Yes," he replied, handing her the coffee.
She took a few sips and closed her eyes as she enjoyed the taste of it. Charlie sat down beside her, trailing a finger down her arm.
"I heard every story and every legend. It was miraculous."
"You were in no condition to speak of what ailed you. I was frantic at first, until I remembered something Joseph had said years ago."
"What was that?"
"Sometimes it is better not to force that person - he said 'patient' - to speak of his ills. Rather embrace him gently and hold on to him for as long as he needs your touch."
"It worked. I felt the echoes that tormented me all day leave gradually, the shaking easing off until it stopped eventually. I am humbled by your compassion. It is one of your qualities which I love."
They were quiet while she enjoyed the coffee. There were no hurried movements about her, no concern over whether he would speak of yesterday, her bearing one of trust.
"I had hoped you would come, Charles," she said when she put the mug down on the bed stand. "I missed you. It has been a very long month since I saw you."
"I thought of you every day," he replied, stroking her cheek this time. "I read your letter..."
"I read yours." She took his hands in hers. "Charles..."
"What is it, my love?"
"Where do we go from here?"
He saw how her eyes shifted with the uncertainty that lurked in them. Where indeed did they go from there? Katrine took care of him, like he knew she would if they ever should grow old together. Grow old together. He liked the idea. But right now he needed to allay her fears, and started by leaning in to kiss her.
Katrine lifted her face the instant Charles bent to kiss her. She felt his breath on her, then the touch of his lips, desire coursing like a sudden wildfire through her.
"Charles, oh, Charles!" she cried in ecstasy as he broke contact, his eyes smouldering black. Very slowly he pushed her gently back against the pillows.
"Let me touch you, or I'll go mad with want," he murmured huskily as he shifted to lie over her. He moved the strap of her nightie over her shoulder and dropped a heated kiss there. Katrine embraced him, her arms pressing him closer to her.
"Love me."
Katrine had no idea where Charles's boots, trousers and shirt had flown in his wild frenzy to tear off his clothes, the final barrier causing him to cry out as he pressed himself against her. Now, an hour later they lay sated in the aftermath of their loving. They didn't care about time, though Katrine trusted Charles that his presence in her home meant that he was on some kind of medical leave and not absent without leave.
They lay on their backs, her hand held in his and occasionally he would squeeze her hand very gently. It was good, loving him. It was good, waiting...
He moved, bracing himself on his elbow, looking deeply into her eyes. She gave a tentative smile, wondering what was on his mind. There were so many things they had to talk about. So many. Yet, the look in Charles's eyes was different, somehow, from the simple need to discuss arrangements.
His eyes held the truth of yesterday.
"I lost many of my men in battle," he began softly. "Wainwright, remember the one who sang like the great Caruso? Baxter, my radioman, the guitarist - died in my arms."
"Oh, mon cher! How sad!"
"A third of my regiment either died or have been sent home."
"You have an injury - "
"I insisted on reporting again for duty." Charles bent to kiss her, the touch lingering, causing them both to moan with pleasure.
"You are stubborn, Captain Miller. Your wound needs a fresh dressing!"
Charles smiled bleakly, the serious tone back in his voice.
"We were involved in heavy fighting. Then I got shot on one of the Seine crossings. Here, through my arm and a bullet bounced off my helmet. It was enough to - "
"Cause concussion. Of course!"
"What is so 'of course' about it?"
"That was why you were so confused last night. I don't think you were very aware of your surroundings. You were unable to speak, or even answer if I had asked you questions. You stared at me with a glazed expression! But did something else happen, my love? You were in shock as if you had seen something repulsive."
"There were dolphins swimming around my head, bouncing around the echoes of - of what I'd experienced and witnessed."
Then suddenly Charles pulled her to him, into a sitting position. He held her so tightly that she found it difficult to breathe. He gave a deep sob, then he kissed her face, her hair, held her close again.
"Charles?"
She almost forcibly pushed him from her, but not letting him go. He looked dazed again, but only momentarily.
"Yesterday," he began in a heavy voice, "yesterday France was angry. The men took out their anger on the women..."
Katrine had been afraid of that, had wondered why she'd returned so early to Paris. She nodded.
"The women in St. Clair were lucky," he continued. "They escaped the fate of the women who were violated. I say violated, Katrine, for there is no better way of describing how those bastards treated the women. Even other women who came to watch out of curiosity were just as unjust, poking their hands - "
Charles frowned deeply. It was difficult to recount what they'd seen yesterday. Katrine waited patiently.
Then Charles started speaking again, telling how the women stood and waited in line. He spoke of how the men were so rough when they shaved their heads that the blades of the clippers cut deeply into their skin. He spoke of how they fondled the women and how the women stood still. He spoke of how they reminded him of rabbits when they were picked up by their ears, how they wouldn't move because any movement would hurt further. The women had stood there, unable to retaliate, when other women hissed at them, emulating the men in touching the victims' bodies, lifting their skirts and groping between their legs. He spoke how the cutting was so ragged that the women looked like tufts of grass were plastered on their head.
Charles spoke of his unbridled anger, of trying to help, of being beaten back by a French resistance fighter with a rifle. "They are whores! They are guilty of horizontal collaboration." He couldn't see how the humiliation of the women could carry on.
"I almost killed the resistance fighter," he said in a deadly calm voice.
He spoke of how he'd disarmed the fighter, then almost strangled him to death, how Davis and Longman struggled to extricate him from the Frenchman. His men had gone into the crowd and they had taken the women with their bleeding scalps - one was a young pregnant girl - to their own medical tents where their barbers had smoothed the ugly crude shearing. He told her how the medics stitched the gashes on the women's scalps.
He spoke of how his arm had started bleeding again and how he couldn't explain why his headaches persisted.
"Longman, you know Longman?"
Katrine nodded.
"Longman told the Frenchman something that echoed in my heart yesterday, in fact in the hearts of all my troops who were with me."
"What did he say?"
"He wouldn't like to tell his grandchildren one day that their grandfather simply stood by and watched how men publicly abused and humiliated women."
Katrine understood how the events had rocked Charles and how it was exacerbated by his concussion. She held him to her, kissed his forehead, his mouth, hugged him again, glad that Charles's eyes were a lot clearer now.
"There, that should do it," Katrine said as she tied off the dressing on his arm. The sutures had stayed in, mercifully, even after the wound had bled again.
Katrine had given a motherly cluck when he'd taken off the old bandage and she'd seen the stitches on both sides of his arm.
"It's an exit wound, honey," he'd said earlier when she expressed her shock.
"Ah, but you should have seen Lamine's leg. He developed a serious infection that could have killed him! Joseph performed a miracle! You should not speak so lightly of your injury!"
"I love that you are so concerned - "
"But I am!"
He'd kissed her silly before they'd gotten in the shower together, made love, showered again, then got dressed.
Now Charles looked at his arm, feeling much better than he had in days.
"What's that?" he asked.
Katrine held a syringe in her hand, already filled with something.
"I am a scientist, Charles. Do not worry so! Joseph called it a miracle drug - penicillin. It will bring down the infection and kill all germs. There."
He'd pulled his face when she ministered the injection, then he kissed her deeply before he pulled on his shirt.
Later they sat at her kitchen table enjoying a late breakfast, or was it early lunch? Katrine didn't care. Charles was with her and that made her extremely happy.
"How long, Charles?" she asked him after biting into a croissant.
"I report for duty on September 7," he said, taking a sip of his coffee.
Katrine smiled, then her smile froze.
"What is it, my love?"
"No - no, it's nothing. I'm glad. We have a few days. There are so many things I want to show you!"
"I'd be happy to experience them all with you," he said, grinning.
"But first, you have to get into civilian clothes, no?"
"I - uh, would like to remain in military gear, if you don't mind."
"Good. I was just testing."
"Now, you know your city better than I do - "
"You got lost yesterday?"
"Circled the perimeter for hours," Charlie muttered as he put on his garrison cap.
Katrine dared to laugh, but it lightened the mood. "That was why you were so confused and distracted last night! My poor darling!"
"Come here, you little minx!"
Charlie stood completely amazed at what Katrine and her resistance group had accomplished. They were standing in the drawing room of the Evremondes, the paintings they had recovered from the Languedoc Estate's bunker 3 now resting against a wall.
Old Monsieur and Madame Evremonde had tears in their eyes and couldn't shake Katrine's hand enough. They had greeted him with mild curiosity, once assured that he wasn't a German SS officer. Then they smiled effusively at him too when Katrine's hand sought his and he gave it a little squeeze.
He didn't understand what they were saying, making a mental note to learn the language. If he and Katrine... He pushed that thought away from him, just very, very happy to be in her company.
He had been astounded when she drove him through an isolated area and stopped just beyond a bridge.
"Well? Are you going to follow me?" she asked.
"Where are we?"
"You'll see."
Katrine walked to a lavender bush and from there counted her steps. She'd opted to wear a pair of casual trousers, something that had him raising an eyebrow before they left her house, but he'd made no comment.
She stepped down into the wide ditch to the opposite side, and hidden from the view of motorists or anyone walking past, opened a door. He had to crouch low to pass through and follow her. She'd picked up a torch that had lain in a box and started counting steps while he virtually had to duck not to hit the roof of the tunnel.
When they'd eventually stood inside the bunker, he gasped. "This is incredible work you've done, Katrine!"
"It was our mission. Some of these paintings were taken from art galleries. They represent the work of the greatest artists from France, Belgium, Italy, Greece, Holland, even Germany. We were only the custodians. If you take this one here and look at the back - " Katrine waited for him to take a painting carefully, "you'll notice at the bottom on the frame is the owner's name. We are returning their paintings. You are the first to witness the return of the Cezanne, Renoir, Monet, and two other works to the legal owners. That is where we are going today."
He could only stare at her in mute admiration, feeling his eyes burn with unshed tears. He felt his eyes burn with unshed tears. How many paintings had been stolen, confiscated, destroyed by the Germans? How many were still hidden somewhere in Germany? Katrine's own painting had been stolen from her home. What these incredible warriors of the resistance had done was save what they could before the enemy could lay its hands on them. Once, Katrine had told him that the Germans took everything not their own and made it theirs.
The bunker was packed with art works and Katrine had her work cut out in the restoration process. She'd probably get Lamine to come to Paris to assist her, especially when he, Charles, would be rejoining his troops.
With the paintings wrapped and strapped to his back, they'd retraced their steps and carefully made it out of the tunnel. They'd both blinked several times in the bright sunlight, made for the Peugeot and headed towards the very grateful Evremondes.
"Will you not stay? For tea?"
"Please do excuse us, Mme Evremonde, but we have other engagements. We cannot stay."
They said goodbye to the couple. Back in the car he turned to look at Katrine. On an impulse he leaned across and kissed her.
"You are wonderful, you know that?"
Katrine smiled, her mouth curving at the corner. Minutes later they were off. He had no idea where she was driving, but it was Paris countryside, with vineyards as far as the eye could see. It was an image of France, with its viticulture, grand chateaux and wine estates that he'd keep engraved on his mind forever.
"Where are we going?"
"I promised the owners of the Languedoc Estate we'd visit them today."
"When did you have time to do that, my sweet love?" he asked. Katrine constantly surprised him and he loved that about her.
"In Joseph's little surgery he had a telephone installed. I called them this morning."
After driving for about fifteen minutes, they entered the arched gateway to the Languedoc estate, where the Charpentiers were waiting for them. Charles was glad he was wearing his uniform. It lent a certain distinguished air that instilled reassurance in them. He was determined to show his country in a good light.
"We'll be lunching there," she told him.
"Any Germans there?"
"They left on the day of their surrender. There was no point in them staying. They couldn't, anyway. The French Army would have been after them. If they were not killed, they are most likely prisoners of war now. I don't care what happens to them, Charles. They seized the chateau of the landowners and whored every Frenchwoman in the rooms of Languedoc. They acted like the conquerors they were, stealing what was never theirs. I am sorry if I sound bitter..."
"Don't ever be sorry. It is over, for France, at least."
"Yes," she said softly as she stopped the Peugeot in front of the great home. It was a sprawling homestead with wine cellars. The doors opened and out came the Charpentiers. They greeted Katrine warmly, Madame Charpentier's face full of smiles. Katrine introduced Charles to them. They looked at Katrine and they looked at Charles and they decided that the destiny of the two was inextricably entwined, whatever the future might hold for them.
In the dining hall, they sat down to lunch. Charles looked around and saw on the mantelpiece a picture of four cyclists. One of them seemed familiar to him, like Berry...
"Please, if I may," he began, "who are those cyclists in the picture?"
Madame Charpentier smiled kindly. "Our son was an Olympic cyclist. He won individual gold as well as team gold - "
"Charpentier? I remember. There was a huge spill that day - "
"That is so, Capitaine. "Did you know him?"
"Just the one cyclist in the picture. But we watched the cycle races."
"You were there?" they asked.
"I was rowing for the United States. Coxed eights. Gold."
They nodded, then Monsieur Charpentier's eyes lit up.
"Jean-Luc will return tomorrow, Mme du Pléssis. It is a pity you could not meet him. He fought with the 1st French Army."
Katrine nodded, adding that they had a lot of work to do and that her guest had to report for duty. The war was not over.
"I am glad the Germans are gone," blustered Monsieur Charpentier. "They acted as if they owned our estate. We sent all the girls home to their own families. One of them was pregnant. It is a shame!"
They thanked the Charpentiers for the lunch and rose from the table. The couple gave them a case of Picard Shiraz from their cellar, as well as a case of Pinot Noir.
They arrived home in the late afternoon, exhausted after their excursion. Charles cranked up the phonograph and played some soothing music, a series of Chopin nocturnes. Katrine busied herself with reports and preparations for their next assignments. It involved help from Charles, maps of the region, ensuring the right paintings and sculptures went to the right owners. Charles closed his eyes, revelling in the peace that suffused him. They would do the work in the morning and the rest of the day was theirs.
Later they had something to eat. He helped prepare their meal which had a French name he didn't understand, but Katrine assured him it was edible. He'd noticed since his arrival a room opposite the kitchen. That door remained closed. He'd wondered about it and thought it could be Célestine's room. He didn't want to venture in there on his own, or ask Katrine about it, thinking that the impetus should come from her. When she was ready to tell him or invite him inside, she would.
They made tender love that night. It always fascinated him, her creamy skin, the rise of her bosom which he loved to trail with his fingers. Sometimes he felt he could just lick her body without stopping, suck on her nipples, his hand roaming all over her body, caressing until she was in a fevered state. At other times he simply lay spooned behind her, his hand covering her breast to lose himself eventually in sleep.
Over the next few days Katrine took him sightseeing, visiting museums, the Eiffel Tower, the Arc de Triomphe to see the inscriptions on the walls, down the Champs-Élysées, the Moulin Rouge. Opposite the Moulin Rouge was the La Place Blanche café . It was reserved for the exclusive use of German soldiers and their French escorts. Katrine told him that not so long ago, Nazi flags hung all over the cafe.
At The Louvre, he stood for a long time in front of the Mona Lisa, thenpaused just as long in front of the Venus de Milo. During those minutes that he gazed at each artwork, Katrine left him alone to absorb the wonder of man's creativity, man's seemingly inexhaustible talent. He felt honoured to have the opportunity to see Paris through the eyes of a Parisienne.
They walked along the banks of the Seine. He showed her the bridge where he'd been shot. They strolled through the street where they'd seen the women being humiliated. At one point he recognised Stephané Marceau. He introduced her to Katrine, who told her she looked beautiful with her hair growing out nicely.
They sat at sidewalk bistros and enjoyed light lunches. Often she gave her little camera to a passer by to take pictures of the two of them.
On those days, Katrine wore dresses that looked so beautiful on her, it took his breath away. She would look at him with a quizzical expression and he'd pull her close and whisper that she made his heart melt. He felt inordinately proud to be walking next to her, to let people see they were a couple and nod their heads in approval. His heart would burn fiercely and he'd grip her hand tighter to him.
One day they had their first squabble, and over a minor issue. They'd visited Notre-Dame Cathedral.
"A Catholic cathedral, steeped in history," Katrine told him as they stood outside the church.
"You're not Catholic?" he asked.
"I was married to a Jew, remember? I do not align myself to any mainstream denomination."
"You don't believe? In God?"
"I am a scientist. Shall we leave it at that?"
"We're at odds, then. Unfortunately."
"Why is it unfortunate? Do we not each define our own destiny? To find within ourselves the qualities of love, respect, honour, selflessness - ?"
"Forget I said it. The less we speak about it, the better."
She'd pursed her lips, stood with her hands on her hips and glared at him. Katrine looked beautiful and angry. He tried to blot out that image of her. He was a religious man who believed in God. As kids they'd all marched with their mother to church, sitting in her favourite pew. He had no problem offering heartfelt prayers, especially over the dead bodies of his troops. He hadn't expected Katrine to take such an implacable stance.
"Joseph understood."
"And I don't?"
"We never brought up religion. Although I accepted that he pursued his."
He relented a little. She looked like she still wanted to bite his head off.
"Fine, then. As long as you accept that I am free to pursue my belief."
"Fine!" And Katrine stomped her pretty foot clad in a very pretty shoe. "Shall we go?"
"I'll drive," he said.
"What? And hand poor Clotilde over to you?"
"Oh, ye of little faith! What's wrong with that? They always were better handled by men."
He deftly warded off the hand poised to strike him, grabbed her handbag and burrowed for the keys. He walked to the Peugeot, got in the driver's seat and bellowed, "Are you coming?"
All the way to Katrine's home, there was a stony silence between them. Charles had memorised the routes and he was comfortable driving Clotilde. When they stopped outside her house, she'd stomped inside, banged the door in his face and locked her bedroom once he got inside.
He played a recording and sat on the couch. He thought absently that he should light the fireplace. It was getting colder in the evenings. Later he went to the kitchen and fixed sandwiches for them. He ate his, left hers on the table. Then he went back to the lounge and proceeded to light the fire. Once it was going, he sat back and closed his eyes, enjoying the warmth in the room.
He and Katrine had to navigate so many things, but it was important that they talked about it. It just threw him a bit that she did not believe in the power of a Higher Being. About half an hour later, he felt her weight next to him on the couch. She leaned over to kiss him on the lips. He felt an odd burning behind his eyelids. When he opened his eyes, she gazed at him.
"I do not want us to argue. I'm sure we can work things out."
He nodded, relieved that the ugly moments were over.
"I made sandwiches for you," he said.
"Thank you. I'll have it later. Right now, I need to kiss you."
Charles woke the next morning sensing instantly that Katrine wasn't in the bed. He switched on the bedside lamp, blinking when he looked at his wrist watch and saw it was already 0700. It was unusual for Katrine to be up before him. She liked to lie in, he liked to go out and jog.
Now he frowned when he didn't hear any noise from the kitchen or the bathroom. He shifted out of bed and quietly pulled on a robe Katrine had bought him on the first day when they'd returned from the Charpentiers. He needed to go to the bathroom and then fix something for breakfast. Katrine might have gone out, but then she would have told him.
When he returned from the bathroom, he heard a sound. Frowning, he padded towards the kitchen. She wasn't there. He heard a sob, then another and it came from the room opposite the kitchen. He moved across the passage and knocked softly. There was no response but the crying continued. Not so much crying but intermittent sobs.
So Charles quietly turned the knob and took one step inside. Indeed, a child's room as he'd suspected. A frilly style quilt covered the bed. Stuffed toys were stacked against the pillows. A music stand containing sheet music stood near the window where little butterflies hung on a string. Instead of a silver backed hair brush and combs and curlers, a violin and bow lay on the dressing table. On the walls he saw pictures of Katrine, Joseph, and a studio portrait of Célestine at about six years of age. Another photograph depicted the child playing the violin - a beautiful photograph that threw her in a half silhouette. The room was pretty in a little girl kind of way. Pretty and clean.
And on the bed looking at the portrait sat Katrine, tears streaming down her face.
"Katrine," he whispered her name as he reached for her. He sat down beside her and held her to him. She felt soft and deeply disconsolate as she buried her face against his chest and wept in earnest. As she had comforted him when he arrived at her home that first night, never speaking and just holding him, so he sat with Katrine and waited. From time to time he pressed his lips against her hair, caressed her arm. Mostly, he just held her.
He looked at Célestine's face, an open, smiling, pretty face, very like Katrine. He couldn't imagine this child being shot dead by Germans in an isolated field so far outside Paris. How terrified she must have been when she faced the soldier with the gun. What really happened there? he wondered. He remembered Katrine telling him the spot was near a railway line, that the men, women and children were taken to that clearing by truck. Were they transferred to a waiting cattle truck? Did the Germans simply shoot at anyone because they knew they could do so with impunity?
Katrine held a scruffy little teddy bear in her hand while she sobbed against him. It must be the one they had found in the field that day they were told where the bodies were found. Her hand was shaking as she pressed the little bear to her bosom. He felt close to tears himself.
He had no idea how long they sat like that, but at last Katrine stopped weeping. She sniffled a few times.
"I am sorry - "
"You should not ever be. She was your beloved little girl. You have a right to grieve."
"It's - it's her birthday today, you know?"
Finally, the answer to Katrine's distress, her continued mourning.
"September 4. How old would she have been today?"
"Nine."
He took his handkerchief and dabbed her wet cheeks, pressed her so that she lay on the bed and he settled himself next to her, with Célestine's soft toys all about their heads.
"What was she like?" he asked, emboldened by the way she was able to recover.
"She loved to play the violin, but also books. She was bright, always concerned about someone whom she saw in pain. She befriended people quickly. When Lamine was so sick, she tried talking to him until out of sheer desperation she started playing music for him. Whenever one of us was a bit down, she'd play. Of course, there were times she was stubborn - "
"Like someone I know," he interrupted, smiling at her.
"A lot like me, I think. She inherited Joseph's sense of fairness, of justice."
"Do you think she would have liked me?"
"Who knows? I think she would. It's the strength and dependability that exudes from you, Charles."
He was momentarily sad, thinking of Evan, his little boy at home waiting for him. After a short pause, he spoke again.
"Katrine..."
"Hmmm?"
"What were you doing when you were nine?"
"I was reciting the elements on the periodic table. I was going to be the next Madame Curie. I read every book on science and every novel not usually reserved for nine year olds. How about you?"
"At nine, my brother and I got into regular fights at school. He was not sick then."
"Were you a bully?"
"Hell, no! But we were often teased for looking different. Most of the kids were very fair with blonde hair, blue eyes, that kind of thing. Edward and I are tanned, with pitch black hair and black eyes. They teased us, called us Indians. My father would come to school and tan our hides for fighting like hooligans."
"But it stopped, yes?"
"Oh, yes. Later they were afraid of us and didn't bother us, especially after Edward contracted polio. He was not the only child in our school who had to walk with callipers. We also started rowing very early. I played every sport at elementary school, or at least I tried everything!"
"You are very strong, Charles. Your muscles are hard!"
They were quiet for a few minutes.
"Katrine..."
"Yes?"
"What would Célestine be doing had she lived?"
"Play the violin, of course. That was her primary occupation. That and reading, I suppose. Her father was teaching her piano as well. So I guess that's what she would have been busy doing right now, had she lived.
Charles noticed that Katrine was no longer so weepy, instead, had calmed down considerably. He turned on his side and looked at her.
"How good was she really, Katrine, playing the violin?"
Katrine was quiet a few seconds, mulling over his question.
"Do you know of the Canadian pianist Glenn Gould?" she asked him.
"Only that he is a kid genius on the piano. We listened to radio broadcasts. Edward would know more. But yes, the papers were always full of this musical prodigy."
"Well, Célestine, we believed, was a violin prodigy. Her father taught her most of her early years. She started at two-and-a-half and never stopped. He knew very soon that his expertise in tutoring her was insufficient, so we got her one of the top violin tutors in Paris. By the time she was taken from here, she was studying under Maestro Sargozy. By now she would have attended the Paris Conservatoire of Music."
Charlie was suddenly struck by an idea. He kissed Katrine briefly, then pulled her up.
"Come. Let's get dressed. We can have breakfast at one of those bistros."
"Will you tell me where we are going?"
"You'll see."
Charlie had a holy respect for cemeteries. He'd watched Winonah and Lansing being lowered into a grave. At Vidouville he'd stood by the grave of Cruikshank. Death certainly didn't care about age or standing. There were not as many trees here as in the Detroit cemetery, but the grounds proliferated with irises and lavender. A fragrance hung over the graves, the deep scent of lavender filling his nostrils.
They were standing at a single grave bearing a cross with two names - that of Joseph Eleazar Blumenthal and Célestine Héloise Blumenthal. They'd gone out and bought flowers to put on the grave. Charlie chose a peace rose with a long stem and placed it on the grave. He felt sad. He had seen death close up, he would see many more. He was due on the front in three days.
Katrine was more centred than earlier this morning. She'd wept her tears, for she was glad that she could weep again after she'd closed her heart to sadness. Now she bent down and touched the grave. Perhaps quietly speaking to Joseph too, but Charles thought, mainly to Célestine. He wondered what she was telling her little girl, wondered if she said something about her life with another man.
"I met this man, Célestine, who fills my life. Please, please be happy for me..."
Charles heard Katrine speak and his heart burned with love. He wished he could have met Célestine, really wished it. Maybe tell her how he loved her mother with his whole heart and soul, how he would do anything to keep on protecting her, how he would love to introduce her to his little boy and perhaps, perhaps, have another little child to adore.
Later, Katrine stood a few yards from Charles where he knelt by the graves of his fallen comrades. They were simple mounds with crosses adorned with wild flowers. On some of the crosses hung the helmets of his departed troops. She felt his tears, for had she not wept unceasingly in the beginning when her loved ones were taken from her? In those early days until they came with official confirmation of their deaths, her sorrow had been raw, elemental.
Now she could see how hard it was for Charles to contain the pain of his loss. She knew that his division had been together since 1940, time in which he had gotten to know his troops very well. They shared a closeness, a camaraderie from long association, and when some of them were killed in battle, it might as well be that he had lost a limb or family member.
She stepped closer to read some of the names. Staff-sergeant Felix Holding, Sgt Ian Baxter who played the guitar so beautifully, Private James Wainwright who would have become a tenor singing in the great opera houses. She was sad that talent such as his men had, was gone forever. That thought took her to the many people locked away in concentration camps. She knew that a number of Jews had been members of some of Europe's top orchestras. Would they be languishing in camps, their talent gone forever?
When he rose to his feet, she sighed deeply as she stepped into his arms, leaning her head against him. He squeezed her gently and kissed the top of her head. Katrine frowned when he released her, her wordless question answered when Charles saluted his fallen troops.
She had begun to walk towards the car. When he caught up with her, she asked, "Where to now?"
"One of the boulangeries in the Champs-Élysées."
"Huh?"
"Don't worry so!" he said in French, to which she once again raised an elegant eyebrow. Charles was learning, and learning quite fast!
"That one," Charles said as he pointed to a cake with pink icing, adorned with little roses. "What do you think, sweetheart?"
Who was she to disagree when Charles so obviously brimmed with eagerness?
"Perfect!"
"Good. Tell the kind lady we require nine candles on the cake."
To which Katrine repeated the instruction to the surprised attendant. Soon the cake was boxed. They left the bakery and blinked when they stepped into the sun. Katrine laughed and he thought how bright and without pain her laughter sounded, so different from her sadness this morning.
That night they had dinner which he cooked and afterwards he took the cake into Célestine's room where Katrine carefully placed her daughter's violin in its case. Charles placed the cake on the dresser and lit the candles.
"Happy birthday, my sweet Célestine," Kathryn murmured.
"Happy birthday, daughter of the woman I love," Charles said.
They blew out the candles together.
That night they made love with abandon and didn't stop until they both eventually fell into an exhausted sleep.
Charles drew in his breath sharply. Katrine wore a short-sleeved dress he could swear was the colour of angelic yellow. It clung to her bodice. On the shoulders, as well as the main swathe between her breasts the fabric was adorned with embroidered inlays. He'd once seen Winonah wearing something similar and he made her swear to tell the boys her big brother was waiting to beat the crap out of them if they looked a tad too long at her.
Now he couldn't stop staring at Katrine. Her hair was curled, and held in style by little clever pins and combs.
"You're staring, Charles."
He swallowed hard. He'd never seen her in this dress before. It was striking, enhancing her femininity. Heeled black shoes with tiny yellow clips on the sides completed the picture.
"You're not looking too badly yourself, though I'd have to say you were in uniform every day."
"Do not mock me, my love. Now, where are we going?"
"Take walks, short drives. I've packed lunch and snacks and a bottle of the Shiraz wine. Are you coming?"
"Now who am I to say no to such a lovely lady?" he said smiling.
"Where did you get your dimples?"
"My dad, when he was not-serious. True story."
They walked hand in hand along the boulevards, found a little picnic spot on the banks of the Seine and enjoyed lunch while passers-by stared at them.
"I've got something for you, Charles," she said when she took a sip of her wine.
"Oh?"
She fished a book from her handbag and gave it to him. He read the title.
"French Phrase Book. That would be a lot of help. Sometimes I have a hard time understanding what you mean when we make love!"
"I'm glad you like it."
"Thanks. I'll carry it with me always."
"I do not think it can compete with Caesar's Gallic Wars!"
Katrine laughed brightly. He could only stare and when he found his tongue, said simply, "I love you, Katrine."
Much later they strolled down the Champs-Élysées, window shopping to their hearts' content. At one shop called "Le désir de coeur" they stopped and gazed through the window at the items on display. When Charles glanced at Katrine, she was gazing longingly at a particularly beautiful jewel.
"Katrine?"
"Hmmm...?"
"I am going to do something totally crazy. Want to join me?"
Her eyes widened and her face broke into a bright smile.
"Oh, yes!"
It was 0500 on the morning of September 7. Katrine stood in her lounge in her nightie and gown. While lying in bed, she'd heard the front door open and close several times. She had dreaded this day since Charles had arrived in Paris. Now it was here and very real. Her heart was pounding and she tried to suppress the rising fear she'd experienced since she'd woken up.
He'd already packed and stacked his bags in the jeep. Charles was in full battle dress, the insignia of the Red Diamonds, the division's badge of courage, on his left upper arm. He wore his helmet and his rifle slung over his shoulder.
He looked every inch the armed warrior - suddenly distant, unreachable. His face had again become hard and unforgiving, the way she remembered from their first meeting. Since then everything had changed. They had fallen in love. If she had seen him three years ago walking along the Champs-Élysées, she would not have known him. Now she couldn't imagine a day without him.
This unsmiling man in front of her - was it the same man who made her beg in bed for his touches, who would sometimes shed tears because their lovemaking was so beautiful? Was it the same man who held her the morning of Célestine's birthday and waited until she became centred again? Was it the same man who'd stood in front of the Mona Lisa in the Louvre, looking so raw and vulnerable?
And in a blinding second, Katrine realised that she had lost him. No, she had to amend that. She did not really lose him, she would never lose him, of that she was certain. Captain Charles Anson Miller, soon to join up with his division again, had simply packed all that was emotional, emotive, vulnerable, touching, loving, forgiving and compassionate and packaged them neatly behind the mask of discipline and duty to his cause.
No, he was still there, just hidden behind a mask.
Charles did not speak. She did not take a step forward.
"I know you are not very good with goodbyes, Charles. We've spoken about it. I know the risks. I always have." Katrine bit back a sob. "Wherever you are, my love, I will pray for your safety."
She saw a nerve in his jaw twitch, knew he was thinking of the day they'd argued about religion. Yet now, how could she not ask God to take care of his beloved son?
Charles clicked his heels and saluted stiffly.
A moment later he was gone.
END CHAPTER THIRTEEN
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