A/N: This chapter sees more of Daisy Ginsberg, the Frenchwoman who took "Zannah" under her wing. I really do appreciate all comments and hope very much that you'll offer reviews on this chapter. We're building up to the climax of the story!

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Detroit - September 1944

At ten a.m. the telephone rang in the home of Althea Miller-Wachinski. She'd just read a story to little Evan. The moment he heard the sound, he pointed to the kitchen where the phone was located and said, "Mama, phone!"

Isaac was at his surgery seeing to hordes of patients. If the call was for him, she'd have to refer them to his surgery number.

"Mama!"

"Okay, shush, Evan, I heard you the first time!" she said as she quickly made her way to the kitchen, Evan following her.

She picked up the receiver. "This is the Miller-Wachinski residence. How may I help you?"

A female voice answered. "Mrs Althea Miller? Will you hold the line for a transatlantic call from Captain Charles Miller?"

Althea gave a sharp gasp, clutching her bosom because her heart was beginning to beat erratically. She took a few deep breaths to still the raging excitement in her. It was the first time Charles had called since he'd left for France.

"Mrs Miller?"

"Thank you, yes!"

Althea looked down at a fidgeting Evan who raised his hand to hold the receiver. "It's your Uncle Charles!" she whispered, covering the receiver with her free hand.

"Papa?"

"Yes!"

"Hello?"

Her son's voice sounded like a balm from heaven. His voice, always so masculine, strong, forceful dropped to a softer tone, loving. Althea closed her eyes and murmured wordlessly, "Thank God."

"Charles! It is wonderful to hear your voice!"

"Good to hear yours too, Mama. How are you all?"

"I am in the best health I've ever been, thanks to Isaac - "

"Whose first name is Henry."

"Yes, though I call him Isaac. I'm only fifty two, you know, and not over the hill by a long chalk."

"How is the good doctor doing, Mama?"

"Very well, indeed. He's at his at his surgery right now. It's a pity he isn't here to talk to you!"

Charles gave a low chuckle. Althea remembered how he'd threatened to sock Isaac on the jaw if he made her unhappy. Truth was, Isaac did made her happy. Charles spoke again.

"Edward and Lucy and the kids?"

"All good. Edward is now full professor. Little Charlie keeps looking at pictures of his uncle and Winonah is almost as wild as Charlie. They give poor Lucy a real hard time, but she copes! They are all really doing well."

But Althea's initial joy turned to concern for her middle child. They had seen the newsreels about the fierce fighting in France, tanks rolling through the towns, buildings collapsing under heavy firing. The country had been liberated, thanks to the Allied Forces. There had been much bloodshed and many American and British troops had died. Charlie had briefed them that he couldn't divulge any information about his troops' movements. It kept them in the dark and it distressed her even further not knowing what was happening to him.

She couldn't keep a soft sob from her voice.

"Are you okay, Mama?"

"Charlie, son, how are you holding up?"

There was a pause before he responded. "Just a minor injury here and there. Nothing serious. I lost a third of my company during the Paris combats. It is war, Mama. There are always casualties. Let Edward also know I'm okay, please?"

"You sound so sad. I am sorry to hear that."

Then Althea bent down and, forgetting to cover the receiver, spoke to Evan. "Will you stand still, Evan?"

"Evan is there with you, Mama?" Charlie's voice suddenly sounded more excited. Althea could imagine Charlie smiling, dimples forming in his cheeks, so like their father.

"Oh, yes. I read him stories every night. He's getting as hectic as little Charlie and Winonah. He wants to say hi."

She held the receiver to the boy's ear. "Say 'hello' to Papa."

"Hello, Papa. I am big."

"Hello, my big boy. Remember me?"

"Uncle Charlie!"

"Yes! How are you doing?"

"Me-ma give me porridge. I grow big and - and strong!"

"Attaboy! Give the phone to Me-ma, okay?"

Immediately Evan ran around the kitchen table, touching each chair as he passed.

"So Charles, tell me about Katrine..."

There was a pause. The line was crackling. Althea waited.

"She's beautiful. In fact, I'm calling from her home..."

Althea raised an eyebrow and curved her mouth into an "-O-".

"Oh?" she managed after she could recover from her surprise.

"I love her, Mama."

"Oh, son..."

She could hear he sounded strained as if he didn't want to continue speaking about Katrine any further. What he'd said was enough.

"Please, could we hold off this conversation 'til I write you? I have to go. Give my regards to the others. Kiss Evan for me."

Ten minutes later Althea sat at the kitchen table with Evan still running around it. She was overjoyed to hear from Charles, but what he shared was not nearly enough for her. She wanted to know more, about the injuries he hinted at, but especially about Katrine.

Only two days ago, Edward had called to tell her Charlie was safe in a town called St. Clair, that he had found Katrine. Then Edward had said something quite startling. He thought Charlie was in love with this Katrine because he wrote so much about her in his letter. Edward could sense it and said that Charlie had a very high regard for Katrine and that he liked her very much. Charlie had said as much in the letter to him and he'd sounded extremely upbeat.

Now her heart ached for her son all over again. Charlie had suffered when he lost Lucy, even though he eventually accepted that Lucy no longer loved him. It was the way they had hidden the truth from him that enraged Charles so much. She'd thought at the time that they had done the right thing to wait until he returned from Fort McClellan. She had bled with her son and prayed that he would one day find true happiness.

True happiness.

He said he loved Katrine. His voice sounded so warm and confident that she believed him. What then of his future? She was always so afraid that he'd die on the battleground. Would Katrine love him enough to understand that he had a duty to his country, to his cause, that he was a warrior through and through, to ensure the safety of those troops under his command? Did Katrine love him enough to understand that one day, God willing, he'd return to his country and make a life here? What, Althea wondered, if Katrine could never bring herself to follow Charles and leave her country?

She loved her son and she vowed that she'd love the woman who would make him happy.

Charles and Katrine, Althea thought, had more complications now than he and Lucy had ever had. With Lucy, things were uncomplicated. He'd come home from the war, marry Lucy, settle down and have kids. And that would be that, as her dear departed Henry Miller would have said. With Katrine, she could see the impediments that could harm their relationship. Charles, she knew, thrived on barriers he'd deliberately put in his own way and then fight as hard as he could to jump them all, no matter how high they were.

Just that thought alone made her think that Charles and his Katrine would make it through this war.

So Althea Miller-Wachinski scooped up the still running Evan, put him gently on her lap and then told him that she was looking forward to meeting Katrine du Pléssis whom his papa loved.

Boston October 1944

Edward Miller was surprised to receive another letter from France so soon after he'd received one from Charles. Then he frowned when he looked at the return address and saw "Rue Evremonde, St Clair". He lifted an eyebrow, looking at Lucy who couldn't hold her curiosity and threatened to grab the letter from him.

"Not Charles's handwriting, obviously. And, I don't think this could be Katrine du Pléssis's handwriting either."

"No idea who might be writing you from St Clair, France?"

"Other than Charles? No. No idea."

"Come on, open it!"

They were in the lounge, relieved the children had finally been coaxed into napping after a morning's boisterous play. Lucy was glad for once because they exhausted her. Now she wanted to relax while her husband read the letter aloud. When he opened the envelope and took out the letter, a photograph fell to the floor. Lucy quickly bent to pick it up, because Edward was balancing awkwardly on his crutches.

"Oh, my!" she exclaimed as she looked at the photo. "Edward, she is exquisite!"

"Who?" he asked.

"Katrine du Pléssis in a white tuxedo! And oh! Isn't Charles most dashing in dress uniform? They make a perfect couple!" she gushed, standing next to him so he could look at the photo too.

"So this is Katrine..." Edward said softly. "They look like they attended some celebration, if Charles was in dress uniform."

"Read the letter, please, before the kids wake up!" Lucy urged, barely able to contain her excitement.

Dear Mr Miller

I hope you do not mind that I have asked Katrine du Pléssis to furnish me with your address. She does not know of my writing to you at this point in time, although she did look rather askance at me when I asked her for it. I told her it was for emergencies. I can assure you this missive is not an emergency.

My name is Lamine Bhoutayeb. I was a soldier who fought in the 14th Senegalese Regiment in France. Katrine and her husband cared for me when I was injured after my regiment had been wiped out by the Germans. The couple offered me a place in their home in 1940 and we have been friends ever since. After Katrine's husband and daughter died, we moved to St. Clair where she took over the Coeur de Lion, a restaurant that had belonged to her great uncle.

She has no family in France that I know of and would be quite alone if not for the friends she has in the town. She draws her strength from them and they respect and honour her leadership.

Many things happened during and after the liberation of St. Clair in which your brother Captain Charles Miller played a pivotal role. The company of his regiment remained in St Clair a mere ten days, enough time in which I suspect your brother and Katrine formed a serious attachment. War, I believe, is the cause of these quick affections and declarations of love and loyalty. I know that both Katrine and Captain Miller would not go headlong into something as important as exchanging vows of love. For that, Captain Miller is far too decisive and commanding, possessing strength and integrity. That is why I believe it is serious.

I hope that Katrine herself will write you sometime and tell you of your brother's heroic deeds in our town. Did you know he shot dead a German officer at two hundred paces while that officer held Katrine as a human shield? I think Captain Miller would not tell you that himself. He tends to play down his role in heroic acts.

The photograph I included of Katrine and Captain Miller was taken on the day a young couple was joined in marriage in the Coeur de Lion. He walked the bride up the aisle as her father had been taken by the Germans to do slave labour in their armament factories.

The regiment has left St Clair to advance to Paris where they will liberate that city. I have no doubt that soon France will be free and I can call it my home too.

My concern is for my dear friend. There exists so much uncertainty when one is on active duty in a war which, as you know, has already claimed the lives of hundreds of thousands of soldiers, prisoners of war, inmates of concentration camps and civilians. Please keep them both in your thoughts and prayers. Katrine has suffered much and deserves all the happiness that God in his mercy bestows on her.

My kind regards to your family.

Lamine Bhoutayeb.

Lucy sat down, tears streaming down her cheeks as Edward read the letter in his well modulated voice. She felt an instant empathy with Katrine, for had she not herself waited anxiously for Charlie to write or come home? It was always the uncertainty that got to her. Now she prayed that Katrine would be stronger than she, Lucy could ever be and wait for her loved one to come home to her.

"Tears, Lucy?" Edward asked as he eased himself next to her on the couch and stroked her cheek.

"I hope everything will work out for them. I really do!"

"If it does, they will have to navigate new minefields - "

"What do you mean?"

"Katrine is French, once married to a Jew. She is also a scientist and academic. Maybe she doesn't believe in God. Would she leave the country of her birth and follow the man she loves to his homeland?"

"Things will work out. They always do!" she said, her spirits lifting. "Call Mama and tell her of the letter and the photo. No, we can drive to Detroit and take it ourselves. The kids will be happy to see Mama. We must frame the picture. Oh, and then - "

By which time Edward had lifted his hand and cried "Halt!"

"What?"

"Lucy, my love, we will fly to Detroit for the Thanksgiving weekend. Then we can frame the picture and give it to Mama. She'd love to have it, don't you think? Meanwhile, I will phone her and tell her something about what Lamine Bhoutayeb wrote. Satisfied?"

"Oh, yes! That will do very well! I love you, Edward Aaron Miller!"

University of Paris - October 1944

Katrine left the science faculty in high spirits. After she'd first lost her post as lecturer and researcher in 1940, the university had had to close. The Germans had no doubt wanted to eliminate the heretics, liberals, resistance fighters, radicals and other truth-seekers spawned by universities. Katrine shook her head mentally.

Once Hitler powered into the leadership, the Oppressor had succeeded in creating a veneer of benevolence in which men like Petain soon believed, along with the general populace of the city. Vast amounts of money, time and expertise were spent to ensure that the propaganda machine was kept running to deceive the people while Germany committed all manner of atrocities. In the resistance, they had a vague view of the real damage that was done. Closing the university was one way in which they could curtail the possibility of uprisings.

With France now liberated, the university could resume its many academic programmes. At the time when Katrine lost her post she'd been devastated, unable to believe that she could be treated like that. Now she was happy to be reinstated.

It had been a chance she'd taken to seek an audience with the Dean of the Faculty of Science, since she'd begun to believe that the letter she received through the hands of Lucien Blériot could have been a trick, rubberstamped by his Nazi cohorts. He'd wanted to make life very difficult for her and used every means at his disposal. When she'd broken off her engagement, she'd unwittingly unleashed a tyrant and devious jackal who'd been very nice before. She was glad he'd died, killed by none other than Lamine.

"Your place has been reserved, Dr. du Pléssis. You will rejoin our research team on 1 November. We have a second date, 1 February, if you wish to start later - "

"Please, as soon as I can. That would suit me, Professor. It would be better..."

Her voice had trailed off and Professor Fournier had picked instantly at her reserve.

"I understand that you lost your husband and daughter, Dr. du Pléssis. I am indeed sorry."

She'd nodded. Professor Fournier had lost a beloved son in the war. Life was never fair, she thought.

"Thank you. I am glad to be back, to work with students again."

"Once you join the research team, I am sure you will find it immensely exhilarating. We are on the brink of great discoveries, Katrine, of which France will be proud! Grandes découvertes!"

Her name had slipped out and she'd smiled, relieved that it signified a sense of familiarity. She'd given a sigh of satisfaction, said goodbye to Professor Fournier and then left the office.

Outside, clouds had gathered overhead. It would rain soon. Paris was bracing for the winter months, and although not quite winter yet, it was freezing. She shivered as she wrapped her coat tighter and made her way to her car. She wanted to get home, light the fire in the great fireplace and relax with René Barjavel's latest novel Le Voyageur Imprudent.

"If I voyaged back in time," she mused, "and killed my father's father's father before he had children, where would I be?"

For a moment she pondered on the paradox of time the novel expounded, then shook her head. "Time paradoxes...they give me a headache."

She thought for a moment that she heard Charles whisper over her shoulder, "And then where would I be? But, Katrine, you go ahead and finish the novel. It's good for future explorations. Who knows, man might walk on the moon one day."

So she continued reading until her eyes drooped. Tomorrow, she decided, she would spend the day preparing lectures and writing up notes on some experiments she'd thought about the last number of weeks.

She missed Charles like her very breath; taking her post at the university again would would keep her mind occupied. She needed to work, to stimulate her brain again in the sphere of physics and chemistry.

Lamine had visited and left with several cases of estate wine of the Charpentiers and the Evremondes. He and Solange kept strict account of the funds generated by the Coeur de Lion. She had enough money and could live in reasonable ease in the city. Charles, she'd also discovered, seemed to be well funded, and not only from his army pay. She'd laughed that first night they were together when he showed her his money pouch, one of several tied on the soldiers' belts.

"I have my own car back home. A Cadillac waiting for me."

Katrine had no idea where Charles happened to be right now. That part of his work remained classified and only newsreels kept those interested up to date on the war effort. However, she had not been to the cinemas since Charles had left, so kept her ear plastered to the radio. She was hoping to get a letter from him soon, though that seemed unlikely. Right now, the Allied Forces were in the Alsace-Lorraine region about which she had read in this morning's paper. Further than that she was blind. Charlie had written her address and telephone number down. She desperately hoped he'd tell her again not to worry, that everything would be alright .

Her face reflecting the glow of the embers, the book forgotten on her lap, she stared into the fireplace , idly twirling the simply wrought band on her ring finger.

St. Clair - October 1944

The area surrounding the Coeur de Lion was abuzz. People had begun to congregate in the street near the home of Berry and Brigitte Beaumont, who lived close to the restaurant. They were curious, concerned and excited that they were to be witnesses of an auspicious event, the birth of a child. Not that such an event was an exception in the town, but Berry had stood in the town square and loudly declared his romantic alliance with the fiery Brigitte. Everyone knew they were cousins, everyone knew they'd fought like madmen since they could both walk. Everyone knew that Brigitte had once had an American boyfriend who happened to have been in St Clair back in July. Everyone knew that Brigitte had been deceived by a German and so they felt that it could not be helped that she carried his child. They all understood for Brigitte was as fierce a Resistance fighter as any man in St. Clair.

And everyone was surprised to hear that Brigitte and her cousin Bertrand Beaumont were going to marry.

Only three months ago, Brigitte and Berry married, although they knew that the child Brigitte carried was fathered by that despicable German, Heinz Welthagen, may his soul rot in hell. Whenever someone mentioned Welthagen's name, he followed it up by spitting furiously on the ground.

Everyone had heard Berry's insistence that the child Brigitte carried was his. They thought becoming a father and loving the infant sired by another in such heinous circumstances, to be praiseworthy and deserved the highest honour St. Clair could bestow on him. They were very glad that Welthagen - another furious flying of spit into the ground - was dead. They waited anxiously, debating whether the baby would be a boy or a girl. A girl, some said, would give her Mama endless problems when she reached adolescence and would want to run off with boys to the next town. Some remembered that Brigitte had also, when she was eighteen, wanted to follow that foreigner to America. What a good thing she didn't. She, they declared, was a Frenchwoman through and through who would die defending her country.

Those who said it would be a boy were apprehensive that it might resemble that detestable Welthagen - a furious flying spit on the ground - because then poor Brigitte would not be allowed to forget the man who fathered her child. A boy, some said, could follow in his father's - that be Berry Beaumont - footsteps and cycle for France. There was no doubt that he would become an Olympic racer one day and win the world's premier cycling race, the Tour de France.

And so the conjecture carried on until old Grand-pére Beaumont gently shooed them away from the door. Brigitte, he said, needed time to breathe at least.

"Of course, we shall give her time, Monsieur Beaumont. All the time she needs!"

"Thank you!" he cried, "now go home."

They complied by stepping back only five yards. Grand-pére Beaumont flung his arm in the air in a gesture of frustration, mumbling as he closed the door behind him again.

Inside, Brigitte was quietly anticipating the birth of her baby. Berry had not wanted to let go of her hand, even when the midwife explained to him that Brigitte was not going anywhere for at least eighteen years. But he was adamant and by his wife's side he sat. Grand-mère had insisted that she assist the midwife because she had, after all, brought Brigitte and Berry into the world. Who could argue against a woman who had bathed both children in a tub in her home?

"It is very near her time, Berry," said the midwife. "Just a minute. Brigitte, will you breathe?"

"Please, breathe for the nurse," cried Berry who could not stand that his wife was huffing and puffing unnaturally, to his mind. Did they not huff and puff while he made love to her in their bed? Brigitte had assured him that he would not kill their unborn son - she was convinced it would be a boy - and that they should both enjoy the huffing without feeling guilty?

"What do you think I am doing?" she spat inelegantly as she heaved and gave a huge huff. The baby slipped out of her. Berry had eyes the size of golf balls as the infant's cry rent the air.

"Brigitte, my love, we have a boy!"

The announcement was made outside the house by Grand-pére. There was huge applause when Grand-pére said it was a boy. They were very glad indeed, especially those who had been firmly in the boy-camp. When the applause died down, the people began moving towards their own homes. The excitement was over. Tomorrow someone else would give birth, or someone would die, get married, work in the butcher's, bake French loaves and croissants for the boulangerie and life would go on as if nothing happened.

When the baby was cleaned and wrapped in a blanket, Brigitte, exhausted by the hours of labour, looked tiredly at her husband.

"He looks like us, Berry. Our black hair and dark eyes. Je suis très heureux!"

"What shall we call him, my dearest love, mother of my baby boy?"

Brigitte thought at that moment, as indeed, she had thought often, of a tall, tanned, black-haired army captain who had saved St. Clair and whom she admired even though she didn't like him at first. He was a great warrior. Wherever he was now, she prayed God be with him.

"Charles Beaumont. Charles Bertrand Beaumont."

In the middle of November when baby Charles was about two weeks old, Lamine and Solange exchanged wedding vows in the Coeur de Lion, which was fast becoming a wedding venue for young couples.

Buchenwald - December 1944

In Oberleutnant Helmut von Wangenheim's quarters, Daisy Ginsberg stood a few feet away from him and looked at the floor, not daring to make eye contact. She was not afraid of him, not really, but something happened not long after Zannah had fallen so ill last year. She had become more and more aware of him and feared she might lose her heart to him. He'd acted on the doctor's instruction to keep her in his quarters to care for the sick child.

She had been glad then, knowing that she was spared from Götze and his gang raping her, making her look on while they raped young children, ordering her to keep the child down as they ravaged her body.

Although that did not happen very often, for Götze seemed wary of Von Wangenheim whom he outranked, and Johann Gaertner, she'd tried desperately not to weep or show any kind of emotion. So she'd smile, even laugh when the child lay close to unconsciousness after the act. When she'd return to the barracks carrying the distraught child, or walking with the young girl, she'd wipe their tears, tell them not to cry much, for one day, it would be all over, that they must stay alive.

She had never stopped praying for the children in the camp. So she confided one evening in Herr Von Wangenheim who threatened to storm into Götze's quarters and shoot him. She'd had managed to contain him, telling him that because of him, Zannah was still alive and pure. She knew of a few women in the barracks who would be willing to help protect the children. They knew of a barracks deep in the woods of Buchenwald which the camp commanders ignored mostly because it was too far for them to tread on foot, especially in the deep snow. She told him not to worry, they would know what to do. All he had to do was pretend he didn't know anything.

One morning, Götze had walked calmly into his quarters while Zannah was with Maestro Dobrinksi in Gaertner's house. Götze never showed his anger, but she could see how it simmered beneath the surface when he confronted Von Wangenheim.

"My pleasure with little Jewish girls has been curtailed, Von Wangenheim. Do you by any chance have anything to do with it?"

Götze had lazily lit a French cigarette and blew the smoke in Von Wangenheim's face.

But Von Wangenheim was an aristocrat and it was his bearing that angered Götze. Von Wangenheim had often used his contacts in high places to get what he wanted. It made men like Götze and his cohorts simmer with jealousy. They could not touch him, because there was nothing they could really accuse him of, especially of being a traitor to the Reich.

"You and I both know that investigations into the camp's conditions and those activities of certain camp commanders are under way. Why do you even come here and complain about your so-called privileges when you know Allied Forces are fast advancing into Germany" Do not exacerbate your own culpability by continuing it."

"You are as guilty, Von Wangenheim," Götze blustered, and although the wind had been taken out of his sails, she knew he would stop at nothing to continue his corruption. He'd left in a huff, not daring to threaten Von Wangenheim.

Herr von Wangenheim had turned to her as the door slammed, and said, "I am prepared to accept the consequences, whatever they may be."

His eyes had been bleak that day, yet she could also detect a sense of victory when he'd spoken again.

"The girls are safe, Daisy?" he'd asked.

"Yes, Herr Von Wangenheim. We are not to tell you where they are hidden."

"Yes, that was my instruction. Then I can say with all honesty that I do not know what happened to them, that they could have died of malnutrition and privation, others frozen to death. The children always must be protected."

A flash of pain had crossed his attractive features. She could not admire him more than she had in those minutes. From right under the noses of the camp Commandant and other German personnel, Herr Oberleutant Helmut von Wangenheim orchestrated the so-called disappearance of girls and some small boys from Buchenwald. He was a German to be admired.

From afar, Helmut's voice penetrated Daisy's conscious.

"Did you hear me, Daisy?"

"I heard you, Herr von Wangenheim."

"Call me Helmut. Please."

She couldn't look up, couldn't bear to see the compassion in his eyes. Her husband was now dead. He had been dead since 1942 when he'd been forced by the German government to work as slave labour in their armaments factories. Now, Helmut von Wangenheim brought her the official document stating that Victor Emmanuel Ginsberg had died in the factory.

In the beginning, after she'd been raped in the camp, there had not been a day that she didn't think of Victor, knowing that his fate too was certain death. He was not going to survive the slave labour. After a year, memories of him had begun to fade as she fought desperately to keep alive, for her own sake and for a little girl who in turn had become her saviour. It lessened the longing for her own child who'd died along with Celestine's father. Now the news of Victor's death was acknowledged by a simple nod from her.

For something else had happened in Daisy Ginsberg's life, and that person was standing right in front of her, asking that she call him by his name. Her heart thundered and she wrung her hands in nervousness. From the day she had been allowed to live in his house, she had been acutely aware of him. She'd tried desperately to shut away any thought that she could love someone other than her husband who had died. Those first nights she lived in his house, she had expected him to bed her like Götze and other officers had. She was nothing but a vessel of lust for them and somehow she'd expected Helmut Von Wangenheim to exact some kind of payment for looking after the child.

After they had cleaned and shaved Zannah's head to rid her of the infection, she'd been made comfortable in Herr von Wangenheim's bed and had drifted immediately off to sleep.

"You are to share the bed with her," he'd instructed when Daisy had given him a querying look. "I shall sleep on the couch inside."

She had begun to take off her dress in front of him because he'd given her such a pensive look. He was a soldier. She would service him as gratitude for saving her too.

"Gott im Himmel! What are you doing?"

His anger arrested her movement and she dropped the skirt of her dress.

"You must fuck me. I will serve you every night, Herr von Wangenheim."

"Daisy Ginsberg, listen to me! I am not those dogs who call themselves officers of the Reich. You owe me nothing, is that clear?"

When she did not reply, he repeated, "Is that clear?"

She'd nodded mutely. Herr Oberleutnant von Wangenheim had never touched her since she first came to live in his house. He had not touched her at all.

She admired him for his courage to stand against his comrades, admired his inherent goodness, his refusal to play the same games as the others.

Now his eyes were pleading.

"Look at me, please, Daisy."

She lifted her head slowly to look at him. She saw in his eyes what he wanted of her. It was not the look of depravity, sick lust or simple sexual lust without honour. It was a look so wondrous, so impossible to absorb that she didn't want to hope. She remained wary. He stepped forward to take her trembling hands in his. His eyes bore into hers, forcing her to maintain contact.

"I am not like the others."

"I know...Helmut."

Only then a smile formed, breaking the tension in his face. Yet he sensed something holding her back.

"You have concerns," he said softly.

She couldn't stand his kind-heartedness, his decency. She tried to measure him against his debauched colleagues, that he be like them, but failed. He had been good to her from the start, this handsome, blond German officer with the shocking blue eyes that looked at her with such tenderness. She couldn't stand his compassion whenever she was forced to service Götze and she'd return in the early hours of the morning, watching her as she passed the couch to his room where Zannah slept. So Daisy fought the attraction in the only way she knew how, in a craven attempt at belittling herself. Her eyes stung with heated tears, yet she refused to give in to them.

"I am a whore, Von Wangenheim, nothing more! My body does not belong to me. Those nights I am away from Zannah, I am fucked by Götze, and some nights his friends join in. You know that! I have to pretend to enjoy it, you hear me? There is not a shred of decency in what they do to me. Sometimes I dream, I dream of my poor Victor. I try to close myself off from the terror that surrounds me. I do not hear, I do not speak, never cry out in pain, although the other me who is being ravaged answer all they want, laugh, joke, drink until I'm so drunk I give them everything. But inside, I weep. That is my life since I have been assigned to Buchenwald where every soldier and officer has whored me. You cannot...want me. I am not worthy - "

He gripped her slender shoulders and shook her. She didn't dare look at him. She knew what she felt for Helmut von Wangenheim. To even dare entertain thoughts that any man outside of the camp would want her for herself, for her intellect was insupportable.

She met his gaze, so intent, daring, flinching when she saw the look in his eyes.

"I...am damaged, Helmut."

She was unable to stop a single tear from rolling down her cheek.

"I am in love with you, Daisy Ginsberg. I have loved you since that night you brought a sick child to me and refused to let her die. Zannah is not your daughter, yet you care for her as if she were your very own little girl . You are worthy, as every woman who puts others' needs before her own is worthy, do you understand? I love your courage, your determination to do whatever it takes to survive in this hell hole and protect a child you call your own. I have seen you step in front of Zannah and offer yourself to a soldier in order to protect her. I call that bravery. How could I not admire and love you? Tell me!"

"I can not love you..." she murmured, her resistance feeble against the onslaught of his impassioned words.

"Gott im Himmel!" he rasped as he pulled her to him. "Look me in the eyes and tell me you do not love me. Look! Please..."

Daisy couldn't see Helmut for the tears that swam her in eyes. She tried to smile but her face remained stiff until his hand gently wiped the dampness from her cheek. She gripped his hand and kissed his palm, remaining like that for interminable minutes.

She gazed up at him, a German officer not like the others, a man not like the others, someone who would watch over her like she had dreamed since the day she had entered Buchenwald.

"Whatever happens, Daisy Ginsberg, if we both should survive this war and its consequences, I am yours to love forever..."

Then suddenly, right at that moment, they heard a shot ring out.

"Now, begin from the adagio, Zannah," said Maestro Dobrinski. "Five bars. Good...ease into the third...good...stop!"

Zannah stopped instantly, her bow poised in mid-air. Then she waited for Maestro to speak.

"Gently stroke your bow across the strings, remember?" He pointed to a bar on the sheet music. "Right here it is a pianissimo. Remember?"

Zannah stroked the strings in a pianissimo so sweet that Maestro Dobrinski had tears in his eyes.

"Good. Good. Continue and follow through..."

Zannah nodded, then resumed play, taking the adagio through to its end. Simeon Dobrinski nodded appreciatively as Zannah played. He tapped his foot in the tempo she determined. It sounded much, much better, he thought. No, he amended, it sounded sublime.

He had lived in Krakow teaching adult students at the conservatoire. This child - he prayed to God that she survived the conditions in the camp - was genial. Her playing was phenomenal, equal to any top student he had tutored over the years. He was glad that Oberleutnant Von Wangenheim had taken the child under his wing. There had been so many stories of how he used the child for his own depraved lusts. What he saw in front of him told him perhaps another story.

Simeon had been in barrack 4A when von Wangenheim had entered for his inspection rounds one day. He'd asked if anyone played a musical instrument, especially violin, piano and cello, preferably all three. He'd been the first to respond, because he had heard of the child, Zannah, who played violin in the Oberleutnant's quarters. He was himself a cellist, but could play the violin and piano equally well.

"What is your name?" Von Wangenheim had asked.

"Simeon Dobrinski. I taught at the Krakow Conservatoire of Music. What is it you desire, Oberleutnant? he asked, rather boldly.

"You must report to Oberstleutnant Gaertner's quarters tomorrow at 10h00. The child will be there. You are to tutor her so that she remains in practice."

He had nodded, not certain whether he'd like to see a child raped by a senior officer of the Reich in the quarters of another officer. But orders were orders. He'd reported the next morning, knocking on Gaertner's door. When that man opened the door, he scowled first. Simeon thought it was his duty to look scowling, unsmiling, rigidly upright and disciplined and never let his guard slip. His own heart had thundered, thinking Gaertner was going to shoot him on the spot, though the dubious honour of shooting inmates on the spot went to that jackal Günther Götze.

He'd seen the child sitting quietly on a chair, her violin on her lap. Gaertner had left them alone, after saying, "You have an hour. I do not want to know your name."

That way Simeon Dobrinski could remain a number. He had made his peace with that.

He'd observed the child for what seemed like an eternity. She looked like every child he had seen in the camp - wide-eyed and a little afraid. And why not? They were used as sexual toys by the camp commanders and officers. Men were talking how they could hear screams in the night.

"I will not hurt you, child. Do you understand?" he'd said in the best French he could muster.

"Oui, Maestro."

She'd spoken in a soft, lilting voice.

"Do you speak English?"

"Yes, Maestro." She smiled and her face lit up.

"What is your name, child?"

For a moment he'd seen a flash of pain across the child's face, though it was just a moment. A slight hesitation, as if she weighed her answer.

"I am Zannah Ginsberg."

"I am very pleased to know you, young Zannah. My name is Simeon Dobrinski."

"Maestro Dobrinski."

"Yes. Now, what do you wish you play?"

"Mozart Sonata, K. 376."

"F Major. A good choice." It didn't occur to him to question the child's choice of a piece played flawlessly by the world's best violinists.

She'd nodded, standing up to position her violin against her neck. But he stared fascinated at the instrument. It couldn't be! How could a child possess such a fine instrument? he'd asked himself. He'd owned a Tononi cello, confiscated when they were brought to the camps. He'd loved playing it, just like the great Pablo Casals.

"Zannah," he'd asked, awed by seeing such a great instrument in the hands of a child, "do you realise what violin you have there?"

"A Tononi, Maestro."

"So you know?"

"It belongs to Herr von Wangenheim. He-he said as long as I am alive here in the camp, I can play his violin."

He'd spotted the upright piano when he'd entered; a cello stood in the corner. He sat down at the piano and flexed his fingers, playing an arpeggio or two. The sheet music of the Mozart sonata was already on the music stand.

"Ready?"

"Yes, Maestro."

By the time Zannah had played the first ten bars, he knew the child was gifted. So began an unusual collaboration between a Polish musician and a French violinist amidst the death, shootings, rape, killings, incinerations of the dead, the privation and general squalor around them.

Zannah was a remarkable child, learning quickly, enhancing her already heightened craft by practicing under his watchful eye. Sometimes Herr von Wangenheim would stop by and he'd play the piano while Simeon took her through the finer points of her studies.

He was brought back from his reverie when he heard Zannah's voice.

"Are you dreaming, Maestro?"

He looked at her, wondering for a moment whether her voice was just a dream itself.

"Perhaps, child, I dream of home."

Zannah looked at the kindly teacher. She knew that she was perhaps more privileged than most of the children in the camp because she could play. But she too, dreamed of home sometimes. Her Papa was gone forever. Maman? When she'd been so afraid in the back of the truck, she had seen Monsieur Blériot strike her mother with his rifle. She had seen her mother go down. Her mother did not get up, even though she had screamed for her maman to wake up. She could only remember her mother lying dead on the ground and Lamine bending over her.

She dreamed of her mother who liked to sit on the bed behind her and brush her hair, telling her little stories, laughing at old jokes. She dreamed of her Papa who taught her to name his medical instruments and what they were used for, how her Papa would patiently explain to her what he was doing. Papa taught her to play the violin and the piano, but she loved the violin best of all. Then she and Papa would talk about music. Maman would look at the two of them, complain, then say, "Well, at least she looks like me!"

Then Zannah would become even sadder. She did not know what would happen to her. She had seen many girls disappear and no one knew where they had vanished. She had heard stories that they died, that some of them had been hurt more than ever by the soldiers and died of their injuries. She'd seen women who walked in the fields behind the barracks digging holes to bury the children. Would that happen to her too? she wondered. It made her afraid to walk outside of Herr Oberleutnant von Wangenheim's home. Sometimes when she and Maman Daisy went to the barracks to join the other women and sleep there, she'd heard stories that the girls were dead, that Zannah and her mother were privileged to sleep in the officer's quarters. Were they really dead?

She was very afraid. What if she too, vanished? Who would play her violin? Who would comfort Herr von Wangenheim if she was gone? She didn't want to die now. Maman Daisy always said they should do whatever it takes to stay alive.

If she survived the war, like Maman sometimes talked about, what would happen to her? She was not Daisy Ginsberg's real daughter. Her name was Célestine. In the nights when she lay awake, she would murmur her own name over and over. She would say her mother's name over and over. She would picture her mother, so beautiful, her eyes full of love as they walked along the Champs Élysées. Maman would look in a shop window and see a beautiful dress and say, "My darling Célestine, I think that dress would look very pretty on you."

She missed her own mother, more than she missed her father who had died before her very eyes. Sometimes she dreamed her mother was still alive.

"You are sad, Zannah," said Maestro Dobrinski. "There are tears in your eyes," he said as he stopped playing and moved to stand in front of her.

How could she tell Maestro Dobrinski the truth about her name? Maman Daisy said it was to protect her, so that people must think her mother was with her in the camp. So Zannah shook her head.

"My child, you have a wonderful gift. Perhaps you will not feel so sad when one day, as God wills it, we can leave this camp and you can play with freedom. Come, I shall accompany you to Herr von Wangenheim's house. Put on your coat. It is very cold outside."

"Thank you, Maestro."

They left the house of Johann Gaertner, walked down the six steps and into the road leading to Von Wangenheim's quarters, two hundred metres away. Before they'd even walked ten metres, they were accosted by Kapitan Günther Götze. It was as if he appeared from nowhere, standing in front of them, his riding crop in one hand and his other hand hovering over his sidearm.

Zannah stopped dead in her tracks, her fear already churning through her body so that she shook as she held the violin case. Next to her, Maestro Dobrinski stopped too, taking her free hand in his. She heard him whisper, "Courage, Zannah..."

Götze's eyes reflected pure evil and anger as he looked at Zannah. Her lips began to tremble. He towered above her. They could do nothing but stand still, for any movement, any sign of rebellion would be met with severe punishment. Simeon Dobrinski's only thought was to protect the child next to him. It was clear that Zannah Ginsberg was the object of Götze's attention.

Dobrinski had no doubt as to the German captain's intent.

"Stand aside, Jew."

"Please, Kapitän, she is but a child."

Dobrinski moved to stand in front of Zannah. It enraged Götze even more.

"This girl is good for my bed, Jew. She has whetted my taste. I do not care much for her protector Von Wangenheim. He keeps getting in my way. Now, move!"

When Dobrinski hesitated, Zannah stepped from behind him.

"Please, Herr Kapitän, do not take me..."

Götze bent down to Zannah's eye level and spat at her.

"Your mother was good meat for me. The best cunt in Buchenwald! You will do even better in my bed, you little whore!"

Zannah blanched at Götze's viciousness. She was sobbing, leaning against Dobrinski. Some men and women had come out of the barracks to see what was going on. Nothing that they had not seen before, so some slowly ambled back while others were too afraid to intervene.

"Please, do not take the child," Dobrinski said, facing Götze's glare with equal boldness.

"Please," Zannah pleaded again. "Let me go to Herr Von Wangenheim."

Just mentioning Von Wangenheim's name infuriated Götze even more. His face turned red with anger, remaining oblivious to the child's and Dobrinski's pleading. Very deliberately Götze removed his side-arm and pointed the Luger at them.

"Verdammt noch mal! I do not have time for this!" Götze shouted.

Zannah stared into the barrel of the Luger, her eyes wide with fear. She dropped the violin as her knees started to buckle. Next to her Maestro Dobrinksi gave an agonised cry.

"No! No! Please!"

Then Götze fired.

END CHAPTER FOURTEEN

So...what happens now? Hmmm?