On Special Assignment

Beloit Fiction Journal, Vol. 32, Spring 2019.

German soldiers march down the street.


When a light tap sounded on the door of Klaus’s office (or rather the broom closet he’d been allotted for his visit), he answered with an ill-humored grunt, expecting one of Knochen’s minions, come to bother him about some small inconsistency on one of the numerous forms he’d filled out when arriving at headquarters. It was not one of Knochen’s men who opened the door, however, but a plump young girl with a delightfully pink complexion. Looking at her, Klaus immediately thought of a Viennese Knodl, one of those small sugared dumplings that hide a single ripe strawberry.

“And you are?” he asked, rising and taking the folder she handed him. She must be someone new, he thought, or else he would have remembered her from his last visit to Paris at the end of 1942.

“Olga,” she answered, her round face turning an even more vivid shade of pink. “Olga Voss.”

“Obersturmführer Klaus Barbie,” he replied, clicking his heels and bowing slightly. She was very nicely formed, he reflected, as curvy and plush as the rolled arm of a sofa and so short that the top of her head barely reached his shoulder. And her mouth was simply adorable, such a dark rosy red and shaped like . . .

She cleared her throat, her face having reddened even more. “Your signature, Herr Obersturmführer,” she said, gesturing toward the folder. “It’s required.”

He opened the folder and saw that it was the forms he himself had filled out on the prisoner he’d delivered earlier in the day. Klaus had no idea who the man was—probably a black marketer and not much else—but Knochen apparently thought otherwise. “Hands off,” he’d warned Klaus over the phone, “and I mean that literally. None of your clumsy techniques.” So, instead of questioning the man ­­­­­­­in Lyon, which would have been logical, Klaus had been ordered to drive him to avenue Foch. In addition, there were a few other things—odds and ends, Klaus supposed—that Knochen was assigning him. It was exasperating: a section chief from Lyon had better things to do than serve as a lackey for the great Dr. Knochen . . .

Olga coughed lightly. “If I could just have your signature . . . ”

Klaus, who had momentarily forgotten her, looked up to see a nervous half-smile on her lips. “Tell you what,” he said. “You go to lunch with me and I’ll sign it when we get back. How’s that?”


When they got to the Bouillon Racine a bit later, Klaus was gratified to see Fraulein Voss’s small red mouth open into an “O” as she took in the restaurant, which was decorated to look like an Art Nouveau jewelry box. Klaus thought it was ridiculous—all those beveled glass mirrors, the table lamps designed to look like nodding tulips, the long curvaceous bar that was ludicrous in the extreme—but he knew that women were attracted to this kind of excess, that it put them in a receptive mood.

“A table for two,” he said to the maître ’d, an anemic-looking man who bowed obsequiously. “Perhaps something with a view.” 

The maître ’d glanced briefly at Klaus, no doubt taking note of the uniform, then led them to a table near the front window which seemed more for show than actual use. Other diners, watching from the dim recesses at the back of the restaurant, could see them, as could anyone passing on the street. Fraulein Voss seemed embarrassed to be the object of so much scrutiny, but Klaus thoroughly enjoyed their island table. It was almost as if he and Olga were on stage giving a performance of some kind.

“So how long have you been in Paris?” he asked as their consommé arrived.

“Just a few weeks, Herr Obersturmführer,” she replied, ducking her head.

“And you’re from . . . ”

“From Herressen in Thuringia,” she said, explaining that her father was a fruit seller there. “A member of the party,” she added parenthetically, and Klaus nodded his approval, though it made no difference to him one way or the other. Apparently, things had become unpleasant at home after her mother died, and so she’d gone to Berlin to take a secretarial training course. Then, after that, she’d applied to the military for a job. “I was lucky to get Paris,” she concluded, “because Paris . . . well, everyone wants Paris. It’s the City of Light.”

Klaus smiled, on the verge of reminding her that nightly blackouts had all but extinguished those lights, but then he thought better of it: perhaps the city was every bit as bright as she’d expected. In any case, there was no need to say anything since their main course was arriving: lapin à la moutarde for him and boeuf bourguignon for her.

Olga spent a moment or two studying her plate. “Ach, so good,” she said, smiling her thanks before picking up her knife and fork and applying them ardently. It pleased Klaus to see that she was not a dainty eater. So many women only picked at their food, as if it were somehow indecent to reveal any kind of appetite in front of a man. It was refreshing to come across a girl like Olga who dug into her food without dilly-dallying.

While she ate, he told her a little about himself, beginning with his early days on the vice squad in Berlin. He considered this a neutral-enough subject, since women, even women who worked at SD headquarters the way Olga did, could be—well, a little skittish if the conversation strayed too close to the reality of things.

“Berlin was a cesspool in those days,” he told her, describing his raids on lurid nightclubs and brothels. “And it was even worse during the Olympics,” he added, explaining that they’d been ordered to round up all the prostitutes in the city. “You won’t believe it,” he said, “but we made them peel potatoes just as they were, in their high heels and feathers and I-don’t-know-what-all. It was quite a sight.” He laughed loudly at his recollection of the scene, and Olga joined in, giggling into her napkin discreetly.

Then, judging the time was right, he pulled out a photo of little Ute, his daughter, who was back in Trier with her mother. Showing the picture was a ritual of his, a way of making sure that the women he courted knew how things stood with him.

“Wie niedlich,” said Olga, who peered at Ute’s fat little face and toothless grin, then added in English: “Such a darling.”

“You know English?” Klaus asked her, surprised, and she explained that “darling” (more or less the equivalent of libeling) was a word she’d picked up while visiting her married sister in London—a sister she hadn’t seen in years, not since the war had begun.

“You must miss her,” said Klaus politely, his only aim to keep the conversation going. But Olga responded by prattling on about Hedwig and her family for ten minutes or more. “If I could just send her a letter . . . ” she finally said, looking up at Klaus from under her brows.

“A letter?” asked Klaus, who had been only half-listening. “But that’s impossible. We’re at war with Britain. No contact is allowed.”

“I know,” said Olga as the crèmes brûlée appeared. “I just thought maybe . . . well, that someone in your position might be able to . . . ”

“No, it’s impossible. Really, what are you thinking?”

Olga tapped the caramelized top of her custard with the back of her spoon until it splintered. “Of course,” she said in a tight, barely audible voice. “I understand there are rules.”

Too late Klaus realized his mistake. She was a motherless girl who missed her sister, that’s all, so why hadn’t he been more tactful, more understanding? Still, he couldn’t afford to get caught doing favors, even though he knew it wouldn’t be difficult to have Gottlieb mail a letter from Geneva. He was certainly there often enough, either running errands for Klaus or doing a bit of reconnaissance work. The only problem was Olga. She was so silly, so chatty. Could he trust her to keep her mouth shut?

Snapping his fingers, he summoned the waiter and ordered coffee. Then, leaning across the table, he said, “But perhaps there’s something else I can do for you? Perfume maybe or some silk stockings?”

But Olga only shook her head—no, she didn’t need anything like that—and when the coffee came she had only one small sip. Klaus was annoyed (there were Parisians who would have traded a week’s worth of cigarettes for that coffee) but he tried to ignore her sulking.

“Well, at least let me see you again,” he said, looking into her moon-shaped face with its wet red lips. “Some evening this week perhaps?”

Predictably, though, she prevaricated: Well, not that night, but perhaps the next. She would have to see. But she had enjoyed lunch, please don’t think that she hadn’t, it had been a real treat. This was not what Klaus wanted to hear, but he took it for what it was: a feeble attempt to preserve her dignity.

“I understand,” he said amiably enough as the bill was presented on a small silver tray. “But remember, I could be called back to Lyon at any moment.”


Meanwhile, Josephine Butler, who was approaching Le Fouquet’s on the Champs Élyseés, felt a fist tighten around her heart. Was this a café, she wondered, or a Germans-only canteen? But there was no turning back now. She’d been commissioned to track the comings and goings of Admiral Canaris, so if Le Fouquet’s was the place he frequented, she had no choice but to install herself there.

Quickly, she scanned the outdoor tables, taking in the blur of uniforms: the Wehrmacht in grayish-green, the Luftwaffe in blue, and—worst of all, lounging front and center—a trio of Gestapo men dressed sleekly in black. Sitting there, with their long legs sprawled out in front of them, drinking coffee and cognac and smoking what was almost certainly real tobacco, they looked a little ridiculous, like fourteen-year-old boys who’d raided an uncle’s liquor cabinet. But Josephine knew they were anything but harmless—and so, apparently, did everyone else, judging by the empty tables surrounding them.

For a moment, she stood there pondering—weren’t there any other seats anywhere?—but, then, realizing that she was standing there like a ninny, she made herself choose one of the empty tables and start walking toward it. Be decisive, that’s the important thing, she told herself, sitting down as casually as she could and looking around with what she hoped was a bored expression. The SS men, a table or two to her right, had barely looked up as she passed, which was good, just what she wanted. Not only that, but the table she’d chosen gave her an unobstructed view of the boulevard.

She signaled the waiter and ordered a café noir, or whatever it was they were calling coffee these days, and took a deep breath to calm herself. Waiting in cafés was part of her job, but it was always nerve-wracking. Conjuring up her younger self—the jeune fille who had left England to study in Paris—was one of her tricks. That girl, as she recalled, had spent a lot of time waiting for beaux in places not so different from this one. She was no longer young, of course, but the way you looked (the color of your hair or the shape of your face or the makeup you were wearing) didn’t matter as much as the story you projected. Cover, the SOE called it.

In her pre-war life, Josephine had been a physician with a busy practice in London. It was what she had always intended to do. While other little girls played elaborate games with their dolls, dressing them up like brides or treating them like babies, Josephine wrapped hers in bandages or subjected them to injections administered with a hatpin. The notion that she would ever do anything except practice medicine had never crossed her mind. But then, quite without warning, she’d been summoned for service abroad, something very hush-hush that Churchill himself had dreamed up. Josephine supposed that someone must have recommended her for the job, though who that person might have been she couldn’t imagine. There must have been a vetting process as well. At any rate, the officer who interviewed her on Baker Street had been very well-informed, knowing without Josephine’s telling him that she’d studied at the Sorbonne, that her French was excellent—and that she wasn’t married. In addition, her parents were dead (the officer seemed quite cheerful about this), meaning that, as he put it, she had no obligations of a personal nature. Surely, he concluded, it would be no problem for her to suspend her practice, just for the duration, while she undertook some special assignments.

Her decision to do so had eventually led Josephine here, to this outdoor café where she was hoping to spot Admiral Canaris, a man who was known to disapprove of Hitler. Josephine had no idea if he might go so far as to try to overthrow the Fürhrer, but that was obviously Churchill’s hope.

A white-aproned waiter appeared just then with her coffee, and Josephine forced herself to take a small sip. It was bitter, barely drinkable, like water out of a rusty drainpipe, but it was all you could get after three years of German occupation. She’d heard it was made from roasted barley, but she would have believed anything: bark, wood shavings, even mouse droppings. Ersatz, that was the German word for it, and it applied to practically everything these days. Shoes weren’t soled in leather anymore but in wood. Cigarettes weren’t made from tobacco but from sunflower leaves or some other “approximation.” Even Josephine herself was ersatz, a Parisienne only by virtue of the small chic hat and fancy French coat she wore. She’d found them at a second-hand shop on rue Rocher, where they were expensive but not as expensive as they looked. Besides, a good coat wasn’t an extravagance, it was camouflage.

Josephine’s drama teacher at St. Swithin’s had taught her the usefulness of costumes. Put on Lady Macbeth’s nightgown, dip your hands in raspberry jam and, voilà! you are Lady Macbeth. It was risky, though: play the role enough times and you could lose track of yourself. That was why, underneath her fancy French clothes, Josephine still wore British-made underwear: a Marks & Spencer brassiere and sensible cotton knickers, both rather the worse for wear but still holding up, thank goodness.

She sipped her coffee and stared intently at the boulevard for a few minutes before reminding herself that the SS were only three or four yards away. So far, they’d paid no attention to her, but if she looked too anxious, they might. Perhaps it was time for Je suis partout, she thought, pulling that week’s edition out of her bag and shaking it open with a flourish. It was a scurrilous rag but a very useful prop if you were forced to share space with Nazis. She spread it out on the marble-topped table in front of her and started turning the pages, searching for an article that was halfway readable. Just pick one, it doesn’t matter, she told herself, finally settling on a long article about the French aircraft industry and how it was busy churning out planes for the Luftwaffe. When she’d read it twice and then summarized it to herself, just as a mental exercise, she looked up again hoping to catch sight of Canaris, but all she saw was a dilapidated old man, some sixty yards off, wobbling alongside the gutter.

She returned to her paper, turning over to the next page where a photo showed Ambassador Abetz welcoming someone-or-other to the German Institute. She had just started in on the accompanying article when she happened to overhear fragments of conversation coming from the Gestapo table.

“Nicely turned out but a bit past her prime, wouldn’t you say?” joked one of them, glancing in Josephine’s direction. He was big and aggressively blond, a propaganda poster come to life.

“Oh, I don’t know,” answered one of the other two. “Women her age, they’re a gift. Grateful for any attention you give them.” He picked his teeth idly. “It makes them more tractable.”

 A general guffaw followed, and Josephine felt her cheeks growing warm. She fought back the urge to throw them a scorching look. But to do so would have been an admission that she understood German. 

Then the third officer weighed in. He was sallow‑faced and had a long nose, rather like a ferret’s. “You’re pathetic,” he told his companions in a Berlin drawl, giving Josephine a quick glance. “You’d be lucky to get the time of day out of that gnädige Frau.”  He fished a handkerchief from his back pocket and blew his nose with a loud honk, then summoned a nearby waiter with a snap of his fingers.

Oui, messieurs soldats,” said the waiter, a thin, stooped man who nodded attentively as he took their order, then hurried away to get their bottle of cognac. When he returned, he topped off their cups of coffee, turning the mouth of the bottle at just the right moment to keep it from dripping. But then the blond one bumped the waiter’s forearm––Josephine was quite sure it had been deliberate––and a little of the cognac dribbled onto the black sleeve of his tunic.

“Watch what you’re doing, old man,” said Propaganda Boy, holding out his arm and shaking it menacingly, pretending that his sleeve had been drenched.

The waiter, with the solid dignity of his profession, bowed slightly and murmured an apology. But then, walking away, he tripped on something (his long apron? a jack-booted foot?) and the metal tray he’d been holding clattered to the pavement. The sound, exploding behind Josephine like the report of a pistol, was so sudden and sharp she couldn’t help jumping as the tray rolled away, veering this way and that before hitting the leg of a table and toppling over with a clang. Wrong! don’t make yourself conspicuous, she told herself. But hadn’t everyone else jumped too? It would have been suspicious if she’d remained unnaturally calm.

She fingered the small gold cross at her throat and looked out over the boulevard where she saw the old man still picking his way toward the café. Unsteady on his feet and coughing loudly, he jerked his way along like a rag doll or a puppet, his eyes fixed on the gutter. From time to time, he bent over, plucked a cigarette butt from the pavement, then wavered up again, holding his small treasure at arm’s length for a moment before tucking it into a saggy pants pocket. Josephine was not without sympathy. After all, who knew what his troubles were. Chronic bronchitis? Tuberculosis? Or perhaps he’d been gassed in the last war, so many had been. Still, she couldn’t help feeling upset. To be old and sick was no crime, but to parade your misery up and down the Champs Élysées where every off-duty Boche could take in the spectacle was demeaning and shameful.

A few more patrons trickled into the café and Josephine took a quick inventory. A woman in a red hat with a small, vicious-looking dog on her lap. An elfin man whose pipe and pointed goatee made him look like a professor. And there, in the corner, a heedless young couple who couldn’t stop touching.

Meanwhile, the puppet‑man edged closer. The bottom half of his face looked shrunken, as if his back teeth were missing, and even though it was cold––quite cold––he had no coat: only a worn‑out suit jacket and a sad scrap of scarf that might have been blue or green once but was now the dead color of cement.

Seeing him, the SS men laughed hugely: what fun, this besoffen old bum shambling along, oblivious of everything except his precious tobacco. They tossed a couple of half-smoked cigarettes in his direction, cheering derisively as he scooped them up. But instead of being scornful, or at least embarrassed, as Josephine would have hoped, he stood there grinning like a clown, smiling his gap-toothed smile and touching a palsied hand to the brim of his cap.

A nervous hush settled over the café. Conversation slowed, eyes were averted.  Even the young lovers looked uncomfortable.

“God, what a useless old bastard,” said one of the SS men, looking around the café belligerently. “Fritz, promise you’ll shoot me if I ever get that old.” Then guffaws erupted again as one of them––it was the ferret-faced one––tossed another cigarette butt in the direction of the old man, who immediately pounced on it. It was then, before anyone could realize what was happening––before the recipient even had a chance to straighten up––that the blond‑headed officer was out of his seat and standing over him with the heel of his boot held flat against the old man’s neck. He squirmed, trying to free himself, but then, within seconds, he was still. He’s blacked out, that’s all, Josephine told herself, hopeful when the jack-boot was finally lifted and the old man managed to lift his head a little way off the sidewalk. It lolled like a freshly born kitten’s, but, yes, he was alive. Surely they’d leave him alone now. But then the boot slammed down again, this time with even greater force, while its wearer surveyed the crowd around him with disinterest, as if he had no idea what his foot was doing. Then finally, as if recalling, he looked down, saw the Untermensch and lifted his foot from the man’s neck. The movement was as smooth and impersonal as if he’d released the clutch while driving. Then fastidiously, as if to avoid contact, he turned the body over with the toe of his boot and nudged it gently to see––or rather to show––that the body was lifeless.

A dome of silence descended over the café‑terrasse and in that silence fingers were snapped, the headwaiter summoned. “Here, take him away,” ordered the man who had done the killing.

Josephine plunged her hands into her lap to hide their shaking as the corpse was removed. Every atom in her body strained to escape—if only she could leave, simply pick up her things and get out of here—but how could she when her job was to stay and watch for Canaris? She looked around cautiously, just in case she might have missed him, then nearly gasped when she spotted a cripple crutching his way along the same gutter, once again searching for German cigarettes. No, she wanted to shout: Don’t do that, go somewhere else, it’s not safe, they’ll kill you. But the words were only in her head where the cripple couldn’t hear them. He had no idea what had happened here only ten minutes before. 

Once again, the café held its breath, waiting, watching for the inevitable cigarette to come flying through the air. Josephine didn’t see the SS man who threw it, but his aim was poor and the cigarette rolled in the direction of her table. Without thinking, almost without knowing, she reached out with her foot and stamped on it, grinding it into the cobblestones as though it were something lethal, an ampoule of anthrax spores or a tarantula poised to sting.

Finally, having destroyed it, she sat back in her rattan chair, aware, suddenly, that everyone was staring at her, their mouths slack with horror. Then she heard a chair scraping against the sidewalk and realized that she had broken the cardinal rule: she had made herself conspicuous. Even without looking, she could sense one of the black-suited men approaching.


When they brought her to him, Klaus was impressed. She wasn’t young—probably in her forties—but he saw at once that she had class. Her coat was well made—expensive—and she was wearing a fetching little hat with a veil that seemed to magnify her blue eyes. In addition, she had a delicately moist complexion (rare except among English women) and, though she wasn’t particularly tall, she stood erect. 

He listened to what the men from the café had to say, then scanned her papers (Solange Préjean, a schoolteacher from Eure et Loire, etc.). He positioned himself in front of the window and looked directly at her. “Why do you dislike Germans?” he asked quietly in French.

“I did not say I disliked Germans,” Josephine replied, glancing at her inquisitor, noting the Iron Cross on his left breast pocket, the collar tabs that indicated the rank of Obersturmführer. So, a lieutenant, that was all. Still, he was young (in his twenties probably) so Obersturmführer was no doubt an accomplishment. Nor was he bad looking, in fact rather handsome.

“I’m sorry I acted the way I did,” she continued. “It was on the spur of the moment.” She paused, praying that something plausible would come to her, then added:  “You see, I am a schoolteacher and therefore very fond of children, and I have always felt––well, perhaps it sounds silly––but I have always felt that elderly people are rather like children. They need protecting.”

The Obersturmführer looked at her with his large pale eyes––either blue or gray, she wasn’t sure––and frowned slightly. 

“I am inclined to believe that you are more of an aristocrat than a teacher,” he said, and Josephine felt her stomach shrivel. Perhaps the stylish coat and hat had been a mistake. A schoolteacher wasn’t likely to own such fine things.   

“You are certainly very cool and collected,” he continued. “Where do you teach?”

Josephine had her lines prepared: she was a relief teacher currently between posts. She was now waiting to be reassigned. 

Klaus nodded. It was a dull story, so dull it was probably true. But he wasn’t sure. Her self-possession spoke against it. Most women, when they were hauled into Gestapo headquarters, were jumpy and tense. Bark at them and they’d start to cry. But Mlle Préjean seemed immune to her surroundings. She could just as easily have been in the lobby of a theatre or on the corner of a busy street. He decided to test her. 

“Strip,” he ordered, keeping his voice quiet.

Josephine was stunned. Surely she had misunderstood. “Do you mean remove all my clothes?” she asked, her throat dry. 

“Yes and hurry up,” he snapped.  “Or would you like some help?”

There were snickers from the Gestapo men standing around, the three who had brought her in plus a couple of others who had wandered in, and for a moment Josephine was afraid her knees would buckle. She glanced around the small office, at the filing cabinet, the calendar on the wall, anywhere but at their faces, and reached for her hat. Fumbling for her hatpin with stiff, clumsy fingers, she recalled her arthritic patients and how the simplest things were monumental tasks for them. Now she knew what that felt like. Finally, though, she found the head of the hatpin and managed to extract it. 

She lifted the little dome of black velvet from her head and wondered what she was supposed to do with it. She looked around, uncertain, until the Obersturmführer pointed to the center of his desk.

She laid the hat down carefully, almost like a sacrifice, and began on her gloves.  They were kidskin, a tight fit even under ordinary circumstances. She tugged at the fingertips, but the gloves seemed to have shrunk to her hands, almost like a new layer of skin. She glanced at her interrogator, hoping for what—a reprieve?—but he stood motionless, his face frozen over. Finally, not knowing what else to do, she resorted to biting the tips of the fingers and yanking the gloves off with her teeth. 

Klaus watched with interest. Her teeth were small and white and seeing her use them in this unexpected way was a revelation. Perhaps, he thought, there was a bête sauvage hidden inside every woman.

Josephine laid the gloves on the desk beside her hat and felt for the buttons on her coat. As if in a trance she began to undo them, her hands performing the task without direction from her brain. Through the open door of the office, she heard secretaries clacking away on typewriters or speaking into their phones. How nice it would be to be one of those women, she thought: typing things up, answering the phone, alphabetizing files—such an easy and comfortable job, no risk of any kind, just go home at the end of—

“Come on, hurry up,” goaded one of the men standing nearby, and Josephine, startled, glanced down to see her coat hanging open. Strange, because she didn’t remember undoing the buttons, yet obviously she had. Once more she scanned the room, looking for a place to put her coat, but the office seemed to have been stripped of anything remotely suggesting hospitality—no chairs, not so much as a hook on the back of the door.  Nor was the Obersturmführer offering up any more space on his desk. She looked down at the parquet flooring—once elegant, now stained and dirty—and shrugged off her coat, letting it fall to the floor in a heap, its pale mauve lining sadly exposed.

Now only her skirt and blouse were left, that was all. And once they were removed, she’d be standing there in her chemise, wearing less than she did when she went to bed. It was hot in the office—stiflingly so—yet she couldn’t help shivering.

Klaus took note of the shivering (a point in her favor) and admitted that he was enjoying himself. Watching a woman undressing slowly never failed to thrill him. The stage version, a stripper performing for an audience, was always a cheat: even as you sat there, titillated, watching as layer after layer dropped away, you knew she was never going to give up everything. Some small shreds of cloth would cling to her even at the end of the act, depriving you of the all-inclusive vision you craved. But in real life it was different. So far Mlle Préjean had managed to maintain her poise. Well, good for her. But from here on out it wouldn’t be so easy. With each item of clothing she was forced to relinquish, she’d be losing a little more of her self-possession.

Josephine fingered the buttons on her blouse—tiny dome-shaped buttons, a long row of them, covered to match the crêpe de Chine of the blouse—and began undoing them as slowly as she dared. The first two were easy, but from the third one on down, she knew that the top of her chemise would be revealed. That was bad enough, but infinitely worse was the telltale brassiere just underneath. She cursed herself for being so stupid. Hadn’t she heard of agents who would have passed had it not been for the label in their underwear? Her mother had always warned her about being overly confident, that it would get her in trouble someday if she didn’t watch out, and now that day was here.

Across from her, Klaus watched intently as Mlle Préjean untucked her blouse from the band of her skirt, pulled her arms free of the sleeves and tossed the blouse on top of her coat. A moment ago he would have said that her elegance came from her clothes, but now, gazing at her, he realized it was actually the reverse. Indeed, every part of her was imbued with elegance. The slenderness of her arms. The length of her neck.  The neatness of her breasts, which were as high and dainty as a girl’s. He might have preferred breasts that were a bit larger, but it hardly mattered, he was aroused all the same.

Josephine, reaching behind her to undo her skirt, caught the flicker of lust in his eyes but pushed it away. She had to. Panic was pressing in on her from every direction, and anything else, anything at all, might break her. It would be so easy just to give way to the fear and collapse in a heap on top of her clothes. That was probably what they wanted. But they’d had their fun with the old man, that was enough. Lord, help me, she prayed silently, staring at her hat and gloves in the middle of the Obersturmführer’s desk and concentrating all of her energy on the hook and eye at the back of her skirt. But it wouldn’t budge, or rather her fingers couldn’t manage the task. 

Klaus saw the trouble she was having and nearly stepped forward to assist her before remembering that this was not a domestic scene. Still, he couldn’t help imagining his hand pulling down the tab of her zipper and then drifting slowly, so slowly if might have been an accident, across the curve of her rump. And if he did that, what would she do? Cringe? Burst into tears? Start wailing? It would be interesting to see.

But finally Josephine, using her nails, was able to pry the tiny hook away from its even tinier eye. She undid the zipper, easy by comparison, and her skirt dropped to the floor. She stepped out of it lightly, then pushed it out of the way with her foot, noticing a dark stain near one of the desk legs that reminded her of a Rorschach print. Impassively, she wondered if it might be a bloodstain.

“Get on with it,” said the Obersturmführer. “This shouldn’t take all day.”

Josephine, her heart pounding inside its basket of ribs, fingered one strap of her chemise, wishing she could think of some way to stall. If it had been an interrogation, she might have been able to talk her way out of it. But this, she thought, pushing the strap off her shoulder, was an altogether different interrogation—an interrogation without words.

“C’mon, c’mon,” said one of the others, a blotchy-faced NCO who looked as if he drank. “The other one too.”

Reluctantly, Josephine pushed the other strap off her shoulder, and it was then, just as the top of the chemise sagged to reveal the alien bra underneath, that she caught the Obersturmführer in a leer—a leer so fat and greasy, so unmistakably obvious (he wasn’t even trying to hide it) that this time there was no way of shoving it aside. She felt a thickness in her throat, a sudden wave of nausea Please, God, she prayed, touching the cross at her neck, please save me from this ordeal.

Slowly, as if guided by a force outside herself, she lifted her head and brought her eyes up to meet his. There is goodness in everyone, even in one of Hitler’s borreaux, she told herself, looking directly at him and searching his pale eyes for some hint of mercy.

Klaus, surprised by the audacity of her gaze, was taken aback. Prisoners did not generally look him in the eye (or, if they did, it was only because they were practiced liars), yet here she was, petitioning him with a gaze so direct it felt almost intimate. During his training, he’d been told that no one, not even the weakest prisoner, was without power. Chained or beaten, it made no difference, they were still quite capable of pressing their advantage. He’d never given the notion much credence, but perhaps there was some truth in it. Before he could pursue his thoughts much further, though, a faint noise in the hallway—an intake of breath or a small exclamation—distracted him.

It was Olga, standing just inside the doorway, staring at Mlle Préjean in horror. It was as if the floor in front of her had suddenly opened up to reveal a pit full of rats. 

Klaus was mystified. A woman in her underwear, what was so shocking about that?

But then she lifted her eyes to his, and her gaze, though searching and dispassionate at first, quickly hardened into something mask-like. “Sorry,” she murmured. “I didn’t know.” And then, as quickly as she’d appeared, she was gone.

Well, good riddance, thought Klaus. A little goose whose only talent was giggling—who cared? Had she no idea what went on in Gestapo headquarters? What she had seen was nothing. Nothing! If she wanted, he could show her something much worse, something more in keeping with her misplaced pity.

He stepped away from the window and glanced at the men loitering around his office. “This is a waste of time,” he barked. Then, turning to Mlle Préjean, he said, “You may dress.” He waved the others away as if they were flies and then sat down at his desk, took out a file and started to make notations in it.

Josephine, stunned, pulled on her clothes as quickly as she could, afraid that at any moment he might change his mind. All she could think of was getting away from this awful, airless building and out onto the street where the crowds would cover her up. But then, just as she was about to pick up her hat and gloves, the Obersturmführer stopped her. 

“Leave those,” he commanded.  “I am inclined to believe you, but you are not going yet.”


It was a couple of days later, after Klaus had finally lured Olga into his bed—all it had taken was a promise to mail her letter, such a small thing really—that she asked him about the woman she’d seen in his office.

“What woman?” he asked, watching as the smoke from his cigarette drifted lazily toward the ceiling.       

“You know, the one you made strip in front of everybody.”

Klaus frowned. “Well, you can hardly call it stripping when all she took off was the outer layer.”

“Oh, I thought you made her take off everything.”

“No, there was no need,” said Klaus, tapping the ashes from his cigarette into the ashtray that was balanced on his belly. “She was just a hapless schoolteacher. In the wrong place at the wrong time, that’s all.”

“So what did you do to her?”

“Oh, nothing much. I gave her two days’ hard labor, that’s all.”

“Hard labor?”

“Oh, it wasn’t so bad,” he said. “Scrubbing floors, cleaning boots, that sort of thing. She got off easy.”

Olga was quiet for a moment. “But do you think she was really a schoolteacher?”

“Why, don’t you?”

“No, not really,” she said, rolling over onto her side so that her magnificent Busen was on full display. “To tell you the truth, I’m not even sure she was French.”

“So, after only a few weeks in Paris,” said Klaus, teasing her gently, “you can tell who’s French and who isn’t?”

“Well, no, not exactly, but in this case . . . well, didn’t you wonder about her brassiere?”

“Her brassiere?”

“I know it sounds silly,” she said quickly, “but I recognized it right away. It was just like Hedwig’s.”

Klaus looked at her in bewilderment.

“Hedwig, my sister in London,” she said. “You’re mailing my letter to her.”

“Oh, right,” he said, blowing out a series of smoke rings that floated up to the ceiling.

“Anyway,” she continued, “the thing about Hedwig is that she buys all her brassieres from Marks and Sparks and—”

“Marks and Sparks?”

“It’s really Marks & Spencer—people just call it Marks and Sparks—but the interesting thing about them is that everything they sell is British-made. It’s what sets them apart from other department stores.”

Klaus had been only half-listening, but the term “British-made” jumped out at him. “What exactly are you saying, Olga?” he asked.

“Well, I’m not sure. It just seems strange that she’d be wearing a brassiere you could get only in Britain, that’s all.”

Klaus stubbed out his half-smoked cigarette and set the ashtray down on the floor.

He knew the routine well enough, how you needed to check hatbands and labels—well, everything really—but it hadn’t occurred to him that it was necessary in the case of Mlle Préjean. She simply hadn’t seemed like an operative. If he’d been wrong, though, and she were brought in again—this time on something more substantial than crushing a cigarette under the sole of her shoe—he’d have to pray that Knochen never found out that he’d been the one who released her. Knochen had never much liked him anyway, and Klaus knew he’d be only too happy to cut him loose. Isn’t that what had happened to Dannecker, sent away to Bulgaria? And Heinrichsohn too: he’d been a Jew-lover of course, but marching him off to the Eastern front? It would have been easier just to put a noose around his neck and be done with it.

“But she could have gotten the brassiere as a gift,” said Klaus, turning onto his side to face Olga. “Or maybe she went to London for a vacation and bought it then. You don’t know. There could be a hundred explanations.”

Olga brushed aside his protests. “Maybe, but didn’t you notice how shabby and worn-out it was? Everything else of hers was so elegant—the coat, the hat, that crêpe de chine—”

“But if she’d been trained by the SOE,” Klaus cut in, “don’t you think she would have been more careful? She would have known better than to wear something that could give her away.”     

Olga considered this. “Yes, you’d think so,” she said. “But people are funny. They turn all sorts of things into good-luck charms.”

“That’s what you think it was? A good-luck charm?”

“Well, maybe,” said Olga. “Either that, or a reminder of home.” She paused for a moment, then added, “You never know, wearing it might have given her a bit of courage.” She said this in such a wistful way that it seemed as if she knew Mlle Préjean personally.

“Listen, Olga,” said Klaus, propping himself up on his elbow, “you’ve got to promise me that you’ll be careful not to mention this to anyone else, especially not in the office.”

Olga’s eyes shone. “So you think she was a spy? Is that what you’re saying?”

“No. No, of course not, but this whole thing . . . well, it’s somewhat irregular. I mean, it might be a bit difficult to . . . ”

“A bit difficult to explain?”

“Yes, something like that,” he said, stung by the jaunty, almost taunting tone of her voice. He tried out a small smile on her and waited for her to smile back, or perhaps even giggle (wasn’t she a champion giggler?), but Olga only looked at him blankly.

“Well, I wouldn’t worry,” she finally said, a little light of contempt coming into her eyes as she studied him. “Whoever she was, she’s long gone now.”

Klaus didn’t know what to say to this, but there was no need to say anything. Olga, apparently done with him, was busy fluffing her pillow. Then, turning her back to him, she lay down and glided off to sleep as effortlessly as a child. For Klaus it was different, though. He lay awake for hours, smoking one cigarette after another and staring at the expanse of white ceiling above him. Russia was like that, he thought, just an endless stretch of snow and ice that reduced humans to ants. He could see himself there, gnawing on a frozen mule shank and watching while his toes turned black from frostbite.

But he was being irrational. Insomnia always did that to him. Still, there was no getting around the fact that he’d been sloppy—and sloppiness was not something the SD overlooked. Just ask Dannecker or Heinrichsohn.

He sat up then and, looking over at Olga, cursed her under his breath. What had she thought she was doing anyway, barging into his office the way she had? Hadn’t she known that an interrogation was underway? And why seize on some small inconsistency (maybe useful, maybe not) only to harbor it until—voilà!—she could hurl it back at him like a grenade?

He had let a viper into his bed, he realized, gazing down at the sweat-dampened curls that were stuck to the nape of her neck. Mindlessly, he reached out and touched one of them with his forefinger, noticing at the same time how thin her neck was. To measure, he dropped his hand onto the back of her neck, his thumb on one side, fingers on the other. Beneath the palm of his hand, he could feel the knob of a vertebra. There were seven in the neck, stacked up like shelves, and quite delicate really, more delicate than people realized. . . . But then, with a sudden jerk, he snatched his hand away. This was craziness. What was he thinking? She was a little girl, a goose. Only hours before, he’d been cooing in her ear. And he was unhinged enough to think . . . Quickly, he threw himself onto his side of the bed and lay there as if pinned to the mattress, waiting for his chest to stop banging. People talked about men, SD men like himself, who had gone off the rails and lost their effectiveness. This had been a close call, no question about it, but he’d be careful in the future, he’d keep himself in check. Because he couldn’t afford to let this war weaken him. Others might crumble, but not him, not Klaus Barbie.

– The End –


Something Terrible in the Park

Pinyon, Number 28, Spring 2019.

Puffs of white clouds scooted across the blue sky as Lili, down on her knees, dug in the hard black of her garden. April is the cruelest month: she remembered that, but not much else, from her lit course in college. It had puzzled her then—How could springtime be cruel?—but now, at the age of forty-seven, she knew what the poet had meant. The pain she could manage in any other season devastated her in the spring, its regeneration a taunt she could hardly bear. It was obscene, that juxtaposition: robins and tulips on one side, her son’s death on the other.

She pushed impatiens into the ground, burying their tender roots in the chilly soil and tucking the dirt up around them. She marveled at impatiens—how bravely they bloomed, all season long. The first touch of frost in the fall and they were gone, but until then, so hopeful, so cheerful, so persistent. They didn’t know what was coming, she thought, feeling the damp sting of dirt on her hands, under her nails.

Working briskly, Lili started to transplant her alyssum, packing them into the earth, more closely than she should have because she hated to think of them stranded there, lonely and cold. Beside her, a primrose grew close to the ground, cupping pale yellow flowers in its basket of green. Quickly, she turned away. They were so beautiful. So ephemeral.

In the distance, Rick Davis’s Little League team was practicing in the park. Above the children’s voices, as thin and high-pitched as birds’, she could hear him yelling: Good swing, Nice going, Keep your eye on the ball. He made it sound simple, as if everything was basic and obvious, just a matter of staying alert. And now, this business about the parade, he was making that sound obvious too. She couldn’t understand him, how someone who had been Andy’s coach, who had been there when it happened, could treat them this way.

Lili glanced at her watch and saw that it was almost five, time to start dinner. Wayne, her husband, insisted that a routine was helpful. It was important to get up at seven, to go to bed at ten-thirty, to eat at six, because then, after a while, you didn’t have to remember, these things just happened by themselves. But that was only an illusion, the idea that pathetic little rituals add up to a life.

Slowly she gathered up her tools and put them in her basket. On the patio, though, she slumped into a lawn chair, unable to make herself go into the house. The chair’s wooden frame creaked resisting her weight and the cushions felt slightly damp, but Lili welcomed it. Comfort was an insult to her now.

Sitting there, her arms, even her fingers, too heavy to lift, she could hear the commuter trains coming and going, their accompanying whistles low and sad. Vaguely, she remembered the trains they’d ridden when on vacation in Eastern Europe. There had been toothless old women standing alongside the tracks selling peach juice or hard-boiled eggs or little baskets of jewel-like berries. They had been so lovely, those berries. It bothered her that she’d never found out their name.

As the light faded from the sky, the grass seemed to absorb it, becoming so intensely green she could hardly bear to look at it. Why is it that things are always brightest just before they disappear? she wondered. Andy had been such a happy boy—smart, eager, a champion. Wayne had seen to that with a seamless rotation of soccer, basketball, baseball. It had never occurred to her to worry about baseball. Football, yes—children sometimes broke bones playing football—but baseball? It had seemed as harmless as Sunday school.

Once, Lili had loved those Saturday morning games: sipping from her thermos of coffee and chatting with neighbors while watching Andy out of the corner of her eye. Even now she could see him, squatting importantly behind home plate in his catcher’s regalia, bouncing up and down on his heels, watching Rick closely, an acolyte with his priest. Andy had explained the signals to her once: One finger pointing down was a knuckle ball, two, a fastball. There were other signals too, but she hadn’t paid attention.

Andy had died last year on the opening day of the season when he was hit by a 1996 pale blue Chrysler that had careened out of nowhere into the ballpark where he was playing. It was his second year of Little League, and his team was leading six to four. Though it had been cool earlier in the day, it was warm in the sun, so warm that Lili took off her hoodie. It was then, just as she was wrapping it around her waist, that the monster-car—huge, uncontrollable—raced onto the field, tossing bodies aside as if they were rags, charging at Andy in his catcher’s position, killing him, killing four other children.


After the accident, the ministers from their church had arrived to comfort Wayne and Lili. The senior pastor, with his soft eyes and Santa Claus beard, had looked away, embarrassed, but the junior pastor—a much younger man in tight-fitting pants—spoke of God’s mysterious ways, as if what happened might actually have a purpose.

When it was time for church the next day, she and Wayne went, standing in the narthex after the service as if in a trance while the congregation filed past—So sorry, A special boy, So sad for you—and all the other soft, sibilant sounds that people consider soothing. But Lili wasn’t soothed. She felt as if she were being hissed at. She knew what they were thinking: Better yours than mine. Even Rick and Sharon had been uneasy, eager to get away, to go home and hug their kids close.

Sitting in church that Sunday morning, with the sun splashing crimson and blue through the stained glass windows, she’d heard the minister say that God was the first to cry in a tragedy like this one. She had overlooked it then, but something about the statement kept working its way forward in her brain. Was it true? Did God cry? Just last week she’d read about a woman who had stuffed her newborn baby in a freezer; the paramedics had found it only by chance. And what about that gangly boy from up the street who was always nursing small animals—a bird with a broken wing, a squirrel run over in the street? Did God care about those children? And if so, why did they have to suffer?


From the front of the house, a car door slammed—her husband, Wayne—but she didn’t move, not even when he called her name.

Last night he had brought home some strawberries, and they were just finishing them when he broached the subject of the opening day parade. He said Rick and the rest of the committee wanted Wayne to be the parade marshal. “Well, actually, both of us,” he said. “They want both of us to be marshals.”

“What did you say?” she asked, staring into her coffee cup.

“I said I’d think about it. I said we’d both think about it.”

That night, as they lay moored on opposite sides of their big bed, Wayne rolled onto his side to look at her. She could feel a slight emanation of warmth from his body. “Rick says they thought about canceling the parade,” he said. “A lot of people even wanted to cancel the season. But that’s not fair to the kids. Why should they miss out just because something terrible happened in the park last year?” His voice was calm and reasonable.

“All right, all right, that’s fine,” she said. “I just don’t see why we have to be involved.”


The first of May had been chilly last year, too chilly for opening day, but then the sun had come out, reminding everyone how lucky they were to live in a suburb that was so wholesome and safe, where the worst thing you ever heard about was a raccoon messing with somebody’s garbage.

The parade had stepped off exactly at noon: the high school band, stiff in their blue-and-gold uniforms, little girls in white gloves and tutus doing cartwheels in the street, Mayor Kemp and his wife in the marshal’s convertible. And then there were the floats, one for each team: the Braves on a flat bed truck with a teepee; the Tigers in yellow slickers streaked with black; and the Pirates, Andy’s team, in a boat drawn by a pickup, with a pirate flag snapping in the breeze. Andy, Lili later recalled, had been leaning far off the float, tossing candy to a toddler.

She and Debbie Perkins had stood next to the curb taking pictures as the boat drifted by, laughing a little at themselves for being so Mommy-ish. Debbie’s boy was dead too, but she had another child—a girl with strawberry blonde hair who played basketball. Lili felt guilty thinking that way—how could one child replace another?—but it was still someone to buy birthday presents for, to send to the dentist, to nag about homework. Someone, in other words, to live for. Why hadn’t she and Wayne had more children? A spare child just in case?


From inside the house, she could hear their landline ringing, harsh and demanding. People knew not to call when Lili was the only one home because she never answered. But Wayne always did. “What if it’s important?” he’d say and then reach for it.

But how could it be important? Was God, still crying in heaven, going to call them and say it was all a mistake, that Andy was really alive and coming back to them? She’d asked Wayne that once, and he’d looked at her blankly, as if he must have misheard her.

Ever since the accident, husband and wife—ex-father and ex-mother—had avoided each other politely. Occasionally, during the day, when Wayne was at work, a flicker of something—she presumed it was passion—would spike through her, but then, when he was actually there, she blockaded herself on her side of their vast king-sized bed. And he did the same.

But recently she’d sensed something new in him: an occasional gaze, or small odd gifts that puzzled her: a blue jay’s feather or a tiny tart hardly larger than a half dollar or an antique thimble that came from a house sale. Once he even brought her a small handmade book.

“The artist made the paper herself,” Wayne said as Lili turned the blank pages, which were pulpy and thick.

“But what would I do with it?” she asked, perplexed.

“You could write down your thoughts in it. You know, like you used to do when we went on trips.”

Lili kept the book, thinking that someday she might write something in it, but that day never came and now she didn’t even know where the book was.


They had buried Andy in his baseball jersey and cap, which were black, the Pirates’ color. It had been Wayne’s idea and she hadn’t resisted. What is an eight-year-old supposed to be buried in? But why couldn’t the color have been light blue or green, or even maroon like the other teams had? Anything would have been better than black.

Lili could still see Andy’s pale, crumpled body on the field—lifeless, limp, but otherwise fine, with only a thin trickle of blood zigzagging out of the corner of his mouth. Wayne had picked him up—you shouldn’t pick up a person who’s been injured, everybody knows that, but he’d done it anyway—and run with him to a man in the crowd wearing Bermuda shorts who seemed to shrink away, palms out, the closer Wayne got. A doctor, a dermatologist actually. But it wouldn’t have mattered, he could have been Jesus Christ himself—it wouldn’t have helped. Andy was dead. And she saw Wayne again, stumbling across the field, his shirttail flapping, the small rubbery body slipping sideways in his arms. Overhead, the sky was a bright and brutal blue.


“Oh, there you are,” said Wayne, pushing his way out the back door. “Why didn’t you answer me?”

She looked at him. His forehead was corrugated and old-looking. “I don’t know,” she said.

He knelt in front of her and for a second she thought he might try to touch her, but the moment passed and he merely said, “Why don’t you come inside and keep me company? I’m making spaghetti.”

Lili stared at him—at his glasses and thinning hair, at the tie he was wearing. It was a dark blue tie with small red dots that looked like currants.


In Hungary they had eaten berries even smaller than currants but incredibly sweet and as red as rubies. Once, craving them, Lili had gotten off their train to buy a basket of them from a shrunken old woman in a babushka. The exchange went on for long, arduous minutes, and when she turned the train had already begun to roll out of the station. Wayne leaned over the platform in back and waved to her, half on and half off, as he extended his arms. “Jump, Lili, jump,” he yelled, and she had, berries scattering like beads on the gleaming ribbons of track.


In the growing darkness, she turned to her husband. “Remember how he always sang?” she asked.

Wayne dropped into the lawn chair beside her. “Sure,” he said.

“In the bathroom? In the tub? All those little songs from school. And then things of his own that he made up.”

“The Itsy Bitsy Spider,’ I remember that,” Wayne said.

“Yes, right,” said Lili, turning toward him with a smile. “And ‘Summer in the City’—remember how he memorized it, jackhammer sounds and all?”

Wayne nodded.

Lili looked away. “I always thought he might grow up and be on the stage,” she said. “You know, a comedian or something. He was always such a ham.”

Wayne looked at her. “You’re kidding?” he said. “I always thought of him as—I don’t know, Ryne Sandberg, somebody like that.”

Baseball, she thought. “That was Rick on the phone, wasn’t it?”

He nodded. “The parade is only a week away. He needs to know.” High above them, a jet plane crossed the pale sky like a blip on a screen, its contrail fading little by little. “If I do it,” Wayne asked, “will you do it with me?”

She gazed at him. He was the father, but he could have been a stranger in a store, a person she’d pass on the street without noticing. “Why do you even want to?” she asked.

“Lili, c’mon. They just want to be nice, that’s all.”

“No. No, they don’t want to be nice. They just want us to forget, to pretend that it never happened. They want to erase him, like he never was. Our baby. Andy.”

Wayne studied her for a moment. He seemed calm, strange, an enemy. “They want us to go on, Lili.” He paused. “I want us to go on.”

She looked at her husband’s long familiar face and saw the train again—his body leaning away from it, his arms long and outstretched, golden in the sun, reaching, ready to scoop her up.

“You could do it,” he was saying, and she looked at him, her heart lurching inside its basket of ribs. “I’d be there. We could do it. Together, we could do it.”

In the growing twilight, his glasses caught a last flicker of sunlight, and for a moment she longed to give in, to yield, to take that leap, but then she sensed his hand moving toward hers. No. She shrank from him. No, not if it meant forgetting Andy. Not if it meant that.


And she watched, impassive, as the glimmering tracks pulled the train, and her husband’s arms, and their life together, farther and farther away, until, at last, they were tucked into the seam at the edge of the earth.

Beneath her, cinders stung the soles of her feet. Above her, the sky curved empty and blue. She was alone now, a shrunken old woman wearing a babushka and clutching strange fruit to her bosom.

– The End –

Little Black Dress

Dogwood: A Journal of Poetry and Prose, Vol. 20, Spring 2021.

Three days before the big New Year’s Eve party that will usher in 1968, Hal’s mother leads Donna up the stairs of her lavish house. And Donna, though she tries to be nonchalant, can’t help being impressed by everything she sees: the celadon walls, the brightly polished sconces, the oriental runner that’s anchored by long brass rods at the back of every step. She’s been dating Hal, a law student, since the end of October and this is the way she imagined his house would look: elegant and restrained with none of the cheesy knick-knacks that clutter up her parents’ house in Mt. Greenwood. 

At the top of the stairs, Hal’s mother pauses and gestures toward an open doorway. She is as elegant as her house, from her neat hips and dainty profile, to the plume of smoke spiraling from her cigarette. “This is your room,” she says. “I hope you’ll be comfortable.” 

Donna peers into the room, which is beautifully blank, the walls a quiet shade of gray, the canopy bed as high and white as a very tall wedding cake. “Thank you, Mrs. Burwell, it’s lovely.” 

But Hal’s mother is quick to correct her. “No. Call me Phoebe, please,” she says in a tone that’s more neutral than friendly. Then, waving her cigarette in the direction of Donna’s bell-bottomed jeans, she adds, “Oh, and by the way, we dress for dinner.” 

Donna glances down at herself but before she can say anything, Phoebe is on her way downstairs. Stunned, Donna creeps into the bedroom feeling more like a trespasser than a guest. When Hal invited her for the weekend, she’d been nervous about meeting his parents. This was Lake Forest after all, where the per capita income is probably four times what her father brings home as a Chicago cop. But Hal had pooh-poohed her fears. “Don’t worry,” he said, “they’ll like you just as much as I do.” But now, only twenty minutes after arriving, she’s doubtful. 

She finds her suitcase which Hal brought up earlier and starts rummaging through it, pulling out some of the smaller items as she goes: her bras and panties, the Chanel No. 5 that her brother gave her for Christmas, a couple of letters from Phil that she still needs to answer. When she gets to her new dress, though, she pauses. 

Carefully, almost reverently, she lifts it out of the tissue paper and studies it, wondering what Hal will think of it. He told her the party on New Year’s Eve was a big deal and that she should wear something “tasteful but sexy” so that he could show her off.

Donna has no desire to be shown off (blending in is more what she’s after), but Hal is her first real boyfriend so she’d done her best to meet his requirements without going overboard. She started by searching the dress shops close to campus, but anything made of silk was out of her price range and she hated polyester (too stiff and cheap-looking), so she finally opted to make the dress herself. It was a simple pattern: a little slip dress that skimmed the body rather than clinging to it. The only problem had been the spaghetti straps, which made wearing a bra pretty much impossible. But Donna solved that difficulty by deciding to skip one altogether. She wasn’t exactly what you’d call busty, and besides there were plenty of girls who had stopped wearing bras, especially if they were into the hippie look. 

At home, when she’d tried it on, the dress had seemed perfect, but now, hanging it up on one of Phoebe’s padded hangers, she’s not so certain. What she’d had in mind was one of Audrey Hepburn’s little black dresses from Breakfast at Tiffany’s, but of course there’s no comparison. Audrey Hepburn’s dresses had been custom-made by Hollywood designers, not run up on a Singer sewing machine in the basement of a Mt. Greenwood bungalow. 

Sighing, Donna returns to her suitcase and digs through it some more, eventually coming up with a dinner-worthy gray skirt (short, but not really a mini), a pair of matching tights and a plain white blouse, which, together, make her look more like a fourteen-year-old Catholic schoolgirl than an eighteen-year-old coed. But maybe that’s good, she thinks, glancing at herself in the mirror. At least no one will be able to accuse her of putting on airs or trying to look seductive. 

She opens the door, ready to run downstairs, then stops, remembering suddenly that she’s a guest in this house. It’s always possible that someone might wander in, and if it were Phoebe, well . . . Quickly Donna shoves her underwear into a drawer, then tucks the letters from Phil underneath. Phil is more of a pen pal than anything else, so his letters aren’t exactly contraband, but all the same she wouldn’t want to have them discovered. They’re just too intense. Even the first one was like that, so compelling and almost pushy that she couldn’t refuse. 


I don’t know if you remember me but I used to hang out with your brother Tom a lot. Part of the reason was because I had a big crush on you. You probably didn’t know that but now that I’m 10,000 miles away in Vietnam I’d like you to. I know you must be busy now that you’re in college but if you ever get the chance I’d love to hear from you.


When Donna comes down the stairs, she finds Hal at the bottom of them, looking like an H&R Block tax preparer in his white shirt and striped tie. “C’mere,” he says, catching her hand and leading her into a book-lined room off the living room. “I want you to meet Dad.” 

Hal’s father, ensconced in the lap of a massive wing chair, folds up his newspaper and gets to his feet as soon as he sees her. “So this is the young lady,” he says, his smile huge, so huge it must be genuine. Donna, smiling back and offering her hand, is amazed at how much the two men resemble each other. The father—another Harold, it turns out—is thicker and fleshier, but his sagging face is still quite handsome. 

He picks up a cut-glass tumbler holding something amber-colored and rattles the ice cubes. “Hal tells me you’re on scholarship, a full ride,” he says, and Donna nods. It embarrasses her to have people talk about this, as if she’s some sort of charity case, but Hal’s father seems impressed. 

“Hey, pretty and smart both,” he says, lifting his glass to her and glancing briefly at her legs. “You can’t do better than that.”

You know what I love about your letters, Donna? It’s the way they’re so detailed. Like when you wrote and told me all about your lit class and how much you like Emily Dickinson, that was great. Even the ordinary things you do are interesting, like going to the record store and listening to a Laura Nyro album or having burgers at Joe’s Place. Actually I like hearing about everything you do because it helps me to imagine you better. It makes me feel like I’m there with you.

Coming home from a movie the next night, Donna watches as snowflakes spiral into the windshield of Hal’s car. The sight of them, gauzy and buoyant, makes her feel dizzy, even a bit high, though it’s a natural sort of high. 

She starts to sing: “Su-zy, Suzy Snowflake, look at her tumbling down,” then giggles because the song is so silly. 

Hal laughs. He is in a good mood. “What, Garfield Goose?” 

Donna is surprised. “You didn’t actually watch that show, did you?” she asks as he turns into the long lane leading to the Burwells’ garage, which is an old stable that’s been converted. 

“Sure, didn’t everybody?” 

“Not my brother,” says Donna. “He thought it was too stupid for words.” 

“Well, that’s an older brother for you,” Hal says. He pulls into the garage and cuts the engine but makes no move to get out of the car.

“I guess,” she says, “except most of the time he acts more like my father than my brother.” She laughs a little, then adds, “But what can you do, he’s practically a clone of Dad.”

“So he’s a policeman too?” 

“Well, he wants to be. He’s at the Academy.”

“Hmm,” says Hal, twisting a piece of her hair around his finger. “I hope that doesn’t mean he’ll be making you go out with a whole lot of brother officers.” 

“Well, he might,” she says, only half-joking. “He’s sort of like that anyway.” 

Hal seems surprised by this. “You mean he’d tell you who you should date? He’d actually do that?” 

“Well, no, not directly,” says Donna. “But he has a lot of opinions, let’s put it that way.”

Hal considers this. “And what is his opinion of me?” he asks, unwinding the piece of hair he’s been playing with. 

Donna has no idea how to respond to this. She knows that her brother is leery of Hal—he doesn’t like lawyers just on principle and he thinks four years is too big an age gap—but those are external things. They’re not really the things that count.

“Well, you have to understand Tom,” she says finally. “I mean, I love him and everything, but he can be pretty old-fashioned.” 

“Meaning what?”

“Meaning if he had his way, I’d only date guys from the neighborhood. Known quantities, more or less.” 

This is true, it’s how Tom thinks. What he tends to forget, though, is that nobody from the neighborhood was ever that interested in dating her. Yes, she’d had a date for the prom (a cousin of hers who took her just to be nice), and there had been a couple of other boys, too—boys that she’d dated once or twice but were every bit as backward as she was. Her mother always said it was because she was smart, that she should just be patient and wait because once she got to college things would change. But Donna, who’d always been shy, thought she was doomed. So when Hal appeared out of the blue in the periodicals reading room, she was amazed. It didn’t seem possible that someone who wanted to date her would also be someone she wanted to date. 

“But there’s nobody like that now, is there?” asks Hal. 

“Like who?”

“I don’t know. An old boyfriend maybe? Somebody you used to go out with?”

She shakes her head, noticing suddenly how cold her feet are. “No. Nobody like that.” 

But Hal seems unconvinced. “You’re sure?” he asks, and for a single irrational moment she thinks about Phil. But Phil’s different. He’s in Vietnam and a buddy of her brother’s. If she writes to him, it’s only because he’s in danger and she can’t help worrying about him. 

“Did somebody say something? Because if they did—”

“No, of course not. It’s just that . . . well, I wondered, that’s all.” 

Donna is baffled. She can’t imagine why Hal is so suspicious. “I don’t know what you’re worried about,” she says, “but you don’t need to be. Except for you, I’ve never even been in a relationship.”

As soon as the words are out of her mouth, though, she’s sorry. One look at his face is enough to convince her that, however she meant it (as a token of trust?), he’s not taking it that way.

“Really?” he asks. “I’m your first boyfriend? That’s what you’re saying?”

Donna can feel her face heating up. “Well, no, not exactly,” she stammers. “There were a couple of other boys, but they were”—she shrugs her shoulders—“well, it was pretty platonic.” 

“But you’d been kissed before, right?”

She laughs weakly. “Yeah, sure.” 

“And that’s about it?” 


For a moment, Hal is quiet. “Well, actually, that explains a lot,” he says, staring at the garden tools hanging on the garage wall in front of them. 

There’s a long silence and eventually Donna, against her better judgment, asks him what he means. 

“It’s just that everything is always so shocking to you,” he says. “French kissing even. I could never figure it out.”

Donna hangs her head as his verdict sinks in. She’s tried to be blasé, willing, whatever she thought would please him, but he’s right, she had been shocked the first time he removed her bra, or put her hand on him when he was hard, or slipped his fingers inside her panties. She likes their secret intimacy and how it draws a tight circle around them, but she never feels wholly herself when it’s happening. Everything is so disorienting then, like trying to learn the rules to a game when you’re playing it for the first time. But of course it’s her fault too. If she were more experienced, more sexually mature—more like other girls!—she’d know what to expect. She wouldn’t have to be so “shocked,” as he put it. 

She lifts her head, risking a quick look at him. “Hal, I’m sorry. Really, I am,” she says, but then her voice breaks and she stops. 

“Oh, for Christ’s sake,” he says. “You’re not going to cry, are you? Not about something like that?” 

But Donna, hearing the irritation in his voice, hides her face in her hands and cries that much harder. A moment later, though, he relents, reaching out for her and pulling her into his shoulder. 

“You’re crazy, you know that, Donna? I mean, what do you think? That I want a girl who’s been around the block a hundred times?” He kisses the top of her head. “No, of course not. I want someone like you. Someone sweet and unspoiled.” 

For a fleeting moment, Donna wonders if what he actually means is naïve and malleable—a girl he can boss around and mold to his liking—but then he is kissing her, his tongue inside her mouth, and the thought melts away as she surrenders to the soft urgent coaxing of his mouth. 

You want to know the first time I noticed you? Really noticed you? I think I was around 15 so you must have been about 12. It was in the summer, a really hot day. Your grandma was over and she was out in the yard hanging up some clothes. But then for some reason she got scared. I don’t know why. A bumblebee maybe. She was practically hysterical though, running all around with her apron up over her head. Tom and I just stood there. We didn’t know what to do. But you came out of the house with a glass of water and took charge. You got her to calm down, take a sip of the water. Then you sat with her awhile on that old glider of yours. You talked to her so quiet. It was almost like singing. Sort of the way you’d sing to a baby.  

You were just a skinny little kid then. But I noticed you all right. It’s when I started to think of you as special. And you’re even more special now . . . 

The New Year’s Eve party is hosted by a girl named Heather, who has high sharp cheekbones and a neck so long it seems almost springy, like one of those bobble-headed dolls. “Hey, Hal, look at you,” she gushes as they arrive, then kisses him flat on the lips. She gives Donna a quick peck. “Watch out for this one,” she says, indicating Hal with a quick flutter of bracelets.

Hal sweeps Donna through the house—a house even larger than his—and it’s clear that everyone knows everyone else. They all went to school together. Their parents are friends. They are a tribe, sharing the same rituals, the same language. Donna pastes on a smile and tries to remember the names coming at her. John, an MBA student at the University of Chicago. Sandra, his date, who goes to Wellesley and wears a tight silvery dress that makes her look like a mermaid. Bonnie—or is it Bunny?—a tall, tennis-y girl with a faint mustache and a bored expression. And Scott, a medical student at Rush who actually smiles at her.  

Hal guides her around the dining room table, loading up her plate with delicacies: thick glossy shrimp with their little pink fans, rosy slices of roast beef, stuffed mushrooms smelling of garlic, chocolate truffles in silvery paper.

Halfway around, though, he stops in front of a tray of cucumber slices decorated with cream cheese and bits of pimento. “Here, open up,” he says, thrusting a slice into her mouth. And suddenly, out of nowhere, she wonders if Phil ever has a chance to take communion, if there’s a priest with them out there in the jungle, just in case.

It’s sort of funny the way you get used to things over here. Waking up in a hole for instance. After awhile it seems normal. You even get used to the leeches. They can attach in some pretty private places (if you know what I mean). We tuck our pants into our boots and cinch up our belts as tight as we can but in the morning there they are, black slimy things about 2 in. long. You can yank them off but they’ve got some sort of spit that thins the blood so you’ll bleed for a long time if you do. Lt. Graham showed us how the Vietnamese do it. You take some salt and put it in a piece of cloth and then wet the cloth and apply it. After awhile the leech just falls off. But it can take a long time. I’m generally not that patient. You wake up and you just want those mother-suckers (joke!) off you.

A couple of hours later, Donna finds herself drifting back into the dining room where Hal and his buddies are huddled around the bar. So far he’s danced with her only twice, and she can’t help wondering why he even bothered to bring her. 

She is standing there, staring bleakly at the table with its tall candles and tasteful arrangement of greens, when Sandra, the girl in the mermaid dress, glides up beside her. She is tall, much taller than Donna, and wears carmine-colored lipstick that makes her look like a movie star. She picks up one of the chubby stuffed mushrooms and slips it into her mouth. 

“By the way, I love your dress,” she tells Donna. “It reminds me of Holly Golightly. You know, that movie with Audrey Hepburn. 

Donna, buoyed by her comment, is happy to return the compliment. “I love yours, too. It’s really gorgeous, the way it sparkles.”

Sandra glances down at herself, as if knowing how fantastic her dress is, then launches into the story of its purchase. What happened was, she’d been shopping for Christmas presents, looking for a scarf for her mother, or maybe a blouse, when she saw this dress, which just happened to be in her size, and so . . . 

Donna nods, trying to look interested when, out of the corner of her eye, she notices that Hal has disappeared. Where? she wonders, feeling vaguely uneasy.

“And what about yours?” Sandra says finally, having come to the end of her story.


Sandra nods in the direction of Donna’s dress. “Yeah, where did you find a dress like that? I’d love to know.”

Donna stands there blankly, not wanting to say that she made it herself. 

“It’s not a secret, is it?” asks Sandra. “Some little shop on Oak Street you don’t want me to know about?”

Donna shakes her head, ready to say that the dress came from Field’s—she knows they sell nice things there—when Sandra’s date swoops down on her. “Hey, enough feeding your face,” he says. “We need to dance.”

Sandra, laughing as she’s led away, gives Donna a small wave. “I’ll make you tell me later,” she says, disappearing into the next room.

I think I’ve been telling you too much about what it’s like to be over here. Like what happened to McNally when he stepped on that mine, I never should’ve told you about that. You didn’t need to know the details. But something happens when I write to you. I start out answering your questions and it’s like I can’t stop. I don’t even know what I’m going to say until I’ve written it down. Writing to you is my therapy, I guess, a way of putting things in perspective. Without you, I don’t think I’d know how I felt about anything. That’s how essential you are to me.

“You look lonely,” says a voice beside Donna, who jumps, nearly overturning her plate of Swedish meatballs. But then she sees it’s the med student—what was his name, Scott?—and relaxes, remembering his smile from the introductions.

He hands her a glass of champagne and asks what she thinks of the party. “On a scale of one to ten, what would you give it?” 

“Right now, right this minute?” she asks and he nods. “Oh, I don’t know, a six or a seven maybe.”


“Okay, a four or a five.”

He grins. “How about a two-and-a-half? That’s what I’d give it.” She looks at him in surprise and he explains. “Heather’s been having these New Year’s Eve parties since, I don’t know, the Middle Ages at least, and nothing ever changes. Some of the girls even wear the same dresses. Like that girl over there, the one by the piano who’s wearing a dress that looks like it’s made out of gum wrappers.”

“You mean Sandra?” says Donna, and he nods.

“Every year, the same dress—” 

“But she told me she bought it this Christmas.” 

“I swear,” he says, holding up his palm like a Boy Scout. “Every year, the same tinfoil dress.”

Donna senses then that he’s joking and laughs, realizing that for the first time tonight she is actually having fun. He finishes the rest of his drink and gives her a lingering look. 

“Hey, dance with me, will you?” he asks. When she hesitates, he adds, “Hal won’t mind, will he?”

She looks up at him and laughs. “I don’t even know where he is,” she says and follows him onto the parquet floor.

By now I’ve told everybody in the squad about you. Maybe even the whole platoon. I’ve sort of lost track. And they all say the same thing, that I’m incredibly lucky to have a girl who’s so pretty and sweet and also faithful. A lot of guys out here have gotten Dear John letters. And not just the single guys either. Some of the married ones too. You feel real bad for them. A guy who gets that kind of letter loses it. Can’t sleep, can’t concentrate, forgets to look where he’s walking. 

When they get back from the party, Hal makes a fire in the den, and Donna, feeling drowsy and contented—a little tipsy actually—watches as the flames take root, pretending to herself that this is her house, her fireplace, her beautiful sofa. She even kicks off her shoes and tucks her feet underneath her. It’s a defiant act, something that would pain Phoebe if she were here. She’s not, though, because she and Hal’s father are at a party of their own. 

Hal sits down beside her with a bottle of red wine in one hand and a pair of wine glasses in the other. “I was watching you at the party,” he says. “It looked like you and Scott were having a good time.” 

“Yeah, I guess,” she says, having heard the accusation in his voice. He starts to pour her some wine, but she shakes her head. “No, none for me.” 

But Hal pours her some anyway. “I guess the two of you had a lot to say to each other.” 

“No, not really. Just party talk, that’s all.”

Hal downs his glass and pours another. “You were dancing with him, too.” 

She shrugs, wondering how much he’s had to drink. “There’s no law against that, is there?” 

“You even had your hand on his neck. I saw you.”

Donna stares at him, incredulous. “Well, what do you expect, Hal? If you’d hung around instead of going off wherever it was that you went, I wouldn’t have been dancing with Scott. I probably wouldn’t even have talked to him.” 

Donna, who’s surprised by this outburst, can see that Hal is too. For several long moments, he scrutinizes her, his face so close to hers that she actually feels the heat of his anger. She braces herself for something sarcastic or cutting, but then, unexpectedly, he relaxes. “You’re right, I’m overreacting,” he says. “Scott’s harmless.”

Donna doesn’t answer but manages a smile. She doesn’t want to fight. Not on New Year’s Eve. Not in his beautiful house.  

He puts an arm around her and pulls her toward him. Grateful, she nestles into the well of his shoulder and closes her eyes. He smells good: a mixture of alcohol and English Leather cologne, along with something fainter that must be the smell of sweat. She lifts her head, offering him her mouth and he starts to kiss her, small darting kisses that tingle like snowflakes. 

But then she pulls away: “Wait, Hal, when are your parents coming home?” 

“Don’t worry,” he says. “It’s New Year’s Eve. They won’t be home for another hour or two. It gives us plenty of time.”

Suddenly she feels weightless. “What do you mean, plenty of time?” 

He lifts the curtain of her hair and kisses the rim of her ear. “I mean, here we are on New Year’s Eve, just the two of us, and upstairs there’s a very nice guest room, the one you’re staying in actually.” He pauses for a moment, his tongue in the hollow of her ear, then adds: “So why don’t you just go up there and wait for your guest.” 

“No,” she says as a cold sick dread spreads through her. “No, it’s too big a step. I couldn’t—” 

“Sure, you can,” he says, taking one of her hands. “Just say yes, and the rest will be easy.”

She stares at her hand, mute and white, like a little mouse trapped inside his, and shudders. So this is where her neediness has led her. She had thought that he wanted to show her off to his friends. To have his parents meet her. To spend uninterrupted time with her. But now she wonders: was it only a strategy, a way of arriving at this moment?

“I know it’s your first time,” he says, his tone so earnest it sounds like something from a movie. “But I won’t hurt you, I promise. I’ll go in slow. You’ll like it.”

“No,” she says, yanking her hand away. “I can’t. It’s too much.”

Beside her, Hal’s anger cracks open. “So what are you doing? Saving it for that guy in Nam?” 


“It’s that guy, isn’t it? Phil or whatever his name is, the one you write to all the time.”

Donna freezes. Everything around her stops. The fire stops crackling. The clock stops ticking. Even her breathing is suppressed. “How do you know about him?” she asks. 

Hal snorts. “C’mon, you leave his letters all over.” 

Donna is shocked. He has been in her room, he has looked through her things?

“Who is he anyway?” asks Hal. “Some dip-shit kid you went to high school with or what?”

“Well, sort of,” she says in a kind of daze. “Mostly, though, he’s a friend of Tom’s.” 

Hal laughs scornfully. “Somebody from the neighborhood.” 

Donna stares at the fire, pretending she hasn’t heard him.  

“So what happened? Did he get drafted?” 

“No, he enlisted.”

“Enlisted? You’re kidding? Who the hell enlists these days?”

Donna starts to tell him about Phil’s father, how he fought his way across France in the last war, but Hal interrupts her. 

“What do you think this is, Donna—a war against Hitler? We’re not saving the world from Communism or anything else, we’re napalming a little country the size of Indiana right out of existence.”

She glares at him, outraged that he’s appropriating the liberal argument and using it against Phil as if he were the one who’d started this war. “Well, maybe you’re right, Hal. Maybe we shouldn’t be there. But I do know one thing: if it weren’t for Phil and a lot of other guys like him, you’d be the one out there sleeping in holes and hobbling around on rotten feet. You’d be the one waking up in the morning covered with leeches. You’d be—”

“So he’s a hero, is that it?”

Donna says nothing. A hero? She’s not even sure what that is.

“Okay, Donna, if that’s the way you feel,” he says, throwing her a tight, narrow look. “But when he’s touching you, think about the villages he’s burned and the babies he’s killed. Because no matter what you think, he’s no different, he’s not special. The dirt from this war is all over him.”

Donna stares back at him, her fury contracting to a hard sharp point. “You think you know everything, don’t you?” she says, so enraged she starts drumming on his chest with her fists. “I hate that about you. I hate it, hate it, hate it.” He laughs—it’s a game to him—and catches her by the wrists, squeezing them hard. Then, all of a sudden, his mouth is on hers and he’s pushing her backwards onto the couch. Gripping her shoulders, he kisses her neck and the tops of her breasts, his mouth voracious and big. 

“Hal, don’t,” she pleads as he tugs on her dress. But it’s too late. The strap gives way and his tongue starts flickering over her nipple as if she had planned to bare her breast at that exact moment. She turns her face to the back of the sofa, feeling numb, almost as if she’d slipped outside herself and were watching from a distance. This isn’t happening. It can’t be. 

But then she feels his hands under her skirt. “Hal, no, what are you doing?” she cries, but she knows what he is doing: he is pulling down her pantyhose. She tries to twist away, but he has her pinned down. 

“Hey, relax, will you,” he says, grunting as he struggles with the pantyhose. His voice is light, teasing almost, but his breathing is heavy, like an animal’s. 

She tries to sit up, to back herself into the corner, but it only gives him more leverage. One or two quick pulls and her pantyhose are gone, he’s tossed them onto the floor. 

She thrashes against him, but he manages to wedge his hand between her clenched thighs. 

“No, get off me,” she screams as panic seizes her and she starts to sob. 

Then, without warning, light floods the room. It is Hal’s father, he’s switched on the overhead. “Well, well,” he says, surveying them with bleary eyes, “this is a pretty little scene.”

Hal leaps off Donna and she sits up, hastily clutching the top of her dress.

Mr. Burwell looks at them for another moment or two, then says: “Tell me, son, is there such a shortage of bedrooms in this house that you can’t find one in which to maul your little houseguest?”

“Dad. We were just talking.”

“I guess that’s why her tit was hanging out of her dress,” he says, loosening his tie and looking unsteadily in Donna’s direction. “Quite a pretty little tit, I might add.”

“Dad, for God’s sake,” she hears Hal saying, but she is gone, out of the room, running up the stairs, not looking back, not listening.

You are such a sweet girl, Donna, that I find myself caring more and more about you all the time. I am trying my hardest not to fall in love with you because I know you said we should wait. But I’m not sure how much longer I can hold out. It’s just there inside me, like a little seed, but I won’t let it grow unless you say it’s okay.

Donna sits on her suitcase at the end of the Burwells’ long lane, waiting for Tom to come get her. Huddled against the cold, too exhausted even to cry, she feels flattened, ashamed, worthless. She thought she could visit Hal in his world and fit in, but that was a joke. She was a joke: too trusting, too stupid, too out of her league to have any inkling of what could happen. And then, when it did, she wasn’t ready. She was helpless. The depth of her inadequacy fills her with a shame so pervasive and heavy it feels like paralysis. She tries to think ahead to tomorrow when she’ll wake up in her own bed, but comforting as that thought is, she knows it won’t change anything: she’ll still be the girl whose tit was hanging out of her dress. 

It has started to snow, big idle flakes that fall as gently as feathers. Watching their leisurely descent, she thinks about Phil who keeps telling her how much he misses the snow now that he has to live in a hot steamy jungle. He is such a sweet guy, writing her two or three letters a week and always saying the nicest things in them. So nice in fact that they almost make up for the times in her life when she was ignored or passed over or not seen at all. It’s hard to fathom, but she could probably tell him anything and he’d be interested. 

With Hal it was different. All he ever did was find fault. She was boring at parties and her clothes weren’t right and she wasn’t sexy enough and so on and so forth. But she never contradicted him because she thought he knew things that she didn’t. And she let him boss her around even when it came to little things, like her dress. He’d told her it should be “tasteful but sexy”—two things that are basically opposites—and like a fool she’d tried hard to give him what he wanted. But it doesn’t matter anymore, because even if she could repair the strap, she’d never want to wear— But here she stops, wondering if she even packed her dress. She tries to remember, but she was in such a hurry, throwing things into her bag one after the other, that she has no idea. But it’s not like it matters.

The snowfall is still very light, but a snowplow clanks by nevertheless, its orange light rotating as it momentarily fills the air with commotion. But then it moves on, leaving the street even quieter than it was before. Donna has never felt more alone. The houses, massive and a little sinister, are so dark they could be abandoned. It’s almost as if a silent army has swept through the neighborhood, extinguishing everyone but herself.

Donna stamps her feet just to make a little noise, then hears a car in the distance. She peers down the street, hoping for Tom’s VW Beetle but realizing, as soon as she sees the car’s shape, that it’s a Pontiac Firebird. Donna is generally not that good with makes or models, but she knows a Firebird when she sees one because it’s the car Phil has his heart set on. He’s saving up now so he can buy one as soon as Uncle Sam cuts him loose. He says it will be a reward for all those months he’s spent “humping the boonies.” 

And is she also a reward? The question, darting into her head out of nowhere, cuts through her like an electrical charge. It’s as if something she’d understood only vaguely has suddenly taken on a solid shape. Because isn’t that what he’s been trying to tell her? Doesn’t he manage to work it into every letter he sends her? She feels a little guilty (shouldn’t she be pleased, or at least flattered?) but it’s not that simple, because even though Phil is nicer than Hal—a thousand times nicer—in one way he’s not that much different. If Hal wanted to change her, then Phil is counting on her to stay the same. And it’s too late for that. In his mind, she’s still Tom’s shy little sister, a girl who might be able to keep him alive if she just loves him enough. And, who knows, maybe she will fall in love with him, maybe it will be for keeps. But she’s different now. Not the timid little creature Hal always accused her of being, and certainly not the fantasy girl Phil thinks about just before falling asleep. But someone else, someone who’s still emerging. She doesn’t know who that will be, but for now she’s content to wait and see. 

A light comes on in the Burwells’ house, and for a moment Donna panics, afraid that someone might see her. But then the light goes out. Just someone getting up to go to the bathroom, she thinks— And then it comes to her, where her dress is. It’s in the guest bathroom, hanging by its one remaining strap from a hook on the door. Fleetingly, she thinks about Phoebe and wonders how she’ll react when she finds it. It’s sure to be an ordeal for her, like opening up a drawer and finding the molted skin of a snake in with her undies. 

Donna smiles at the thought—no, she doesn’t just smile, she decides to laugh. She looks around at the snow that’s still coming down. Layer by layer, it’s coating everything in its way—rooftops, tree limbs, even the tiniest of twigs—and transforming them into something soft and radiantly white. Donna doesn’t know how much longer she’ll have to sit here and wait, but she’s comfortable floating in this blank world where she’s at the center of something new and fresh and promising.

– The End –

Number 12 rue Sainte-Catherine


The Write Launch, Issue 20, December 2018

Early on February 9, 1943

The weather is cold and sleety when André Deutsch picks up his briefcase full of cash and heads for the UGIF office. Mondays are always a trial for him. On those days (allotment days) he has to lug up to 30,000 francs through Old Lyon with its medieval streets and narrow soot-stained buildings. André has never been especially brave (he was a yeshiva boy, an easy target for the roughnecks in his town of Borsec), but walking alone through this part of the city has never been safe. There are simply too many traboules. Walk along any street in the old quarter and you can’t help but think about those underground passageways and who might be hiding in them, waiting, just biding their time.

If the allotment money could be delivered in a normal way (by armored car, say) then things would be easier, but the Union Générale des Israelites de France, or UGIF, is hardly normal. How could it be when it was set up by the SS in collusion with Vichy’s puppet government? Still, it’s the only social service agency the Jews have in France. And André knows that he’s lucky to work there as an accountant. He just wishes the job didn’t entail hauling thousands of francs through a city teeming with refugees, some so desperate they’d probably kill for a ration card.

But André is moving to Savoy next week, so this, thank God, is the last delivery he’ll ever have to make. Savoy is his promised land. The Italians are in charge there, and they don’t really care who’s Jewish and who isn’t, or at least that’s what he’s been told.

But something could still happen, he reminds himself, bent almost double as he crosses the pont Morand. Below him, the Rhône River, stirred up by the wind, looks darkly threatening. This could be a warning if he chose to take it that way, but he doesn’t because all he can think about is reaching Number 12 rue Sainte-Catherine. Just cross the bridge, then a block or two more and he’ll be there. Someone could still accost him, of course. Residents of the neighborhood might be watching him right now. And anyone who’s ever stopped by the UGIF office looking for a handout would be able to recognize him—and guess what was in his briefcase.

If that happened, André doesn’t know what he would do. He is not a large man nor is he armed. But he’d have to do something because in 1943 a Romanian Jew in France is on his own. Call for the police and you’re likely to find yourself in the lap of the Gestapo.


Meanwhile, Maier Weissman is at home packing his rucksack with toys for the children. His staff tells him to focus on useful things—shoes, toothbrushes, flannel underwear, that sort of thingand he agrees, it’s UGIF’s job to provide those things, but he also knows that games and dolls and comic books are just as important, perhaps, in a way, even more so.

He squeezes in one last teddy bear, then turns to say goodbye to his family: a quick kiss for Miriam, his wife, a hug for Sylvie, his married (or if her husband is dead, widowed) daughter, and finally a big sloppy smooch for Ezekiel, his five-month-old grandson. “Don’t worry if I’m a bit late tonight,” he says. “Monday, you know.” Then pausing just long enough to give his wife a mischievous look, he adds, “But I’ll be back to help you blow out the candles.”

Miriam’s look passes from him to Sylvie. “What’s this about candles?”

Maier laughs. “For your cake, Miriam. Your birthday cake. You are having a birthday, aren’t you?”

“Yes, but—”

“Never you mind,” says Maier, winking at his daughter. “Sylvie has it well in hand.” 

It’s how he tries to leave them, on a cheerful note, always with some small reference to the evening ahead. But no sooner is he in the hall, pulling the door shut behind him than a momentary fear washes over him: What if I don’t return? What if I never see them again? The feeling passes, but not before he’s put a hand to his heart (yes, that’s what it feels like, a heart attack) and never without a last wistful look at the door, behind which his family is already starting to do whatever it is they do when he’s not with them.


In a small apartment on rue Vendome, twenty-year-old Eva Gottlieb is sipping a mug of ersatz coffee when her mother appears in the kitchen bundled up like a kulak. Eva takes one look at her—from the Russian-style scarf on her head to the oversized galoshes on her feet—and bursts out laughing. “Oh, maman,” she says, “you look like a babushka.”

Her mother frowns. “Have you looked out the window, ma chère? Don’t you see that it’s snowing?” But then she glances at the ridiculous galoshes, which were once her son’s, and laughs herself. “I just hope I make it to work and back,” she adds.

Eva takes another sip of her coffee. “Lucky for me I get to stay in,” she says, grateful to have the day off after her eighty-mile trip back from the Swiss border yesterday.

But her mother only looks at her. “Eva, you’re not going to miss your piano lesson, are you?”

“My piano lesson?”

“Yes, your piano lesson. It’s at nine o’clock on Mondays, isn’t it?”

“Today is Monday?”

Oui, c’est aujourd’hui lundi,” says her mother, who starts wrapping up a little bread and some cheese for her lunch. “And Mme Larcher needs every sou she can scrape together. Besides,” she adds, “you know how much you love to play. It’s your passion.”

Eva smiles. It’s ridiculous, but her mother still believes that she was born with an extravagant gift for music and that if it hadn’t been for the war she’d be a concert pianist by now. Eva knows better—she is competent at best—and, besides, the real reason for keeping up with her lessons is to maintain contact with Jacques, Mme Larcher’s twenty-two-year-old son. As a courier for Combat, he spends his days cycling from one rendezvous to the next, delivering mail and wireless crystals, sometimes even pistols or cash. Eva never knows where he will be, but he drops by his mother’s apartment from time to time to leave her notes. Sometimes it’s only a “Je t’adore” or a “Je t’embrasse,” but if his cousin’s flat is available (as it often is since he’s a traveling salesman) then Jacques will tell her what time to meet him there.

Eva’s life is so chaotic she tries never to think too far ahead, but the possibility of a night with Jacques—a whole night, just the two of them, in the same bed, like a married couple—is too delirium-inducing to resist. So even without her mother’s coaxing, she probably would have devised a way to get to Mme Larcher’s today. Still, it’s best if she goes at the time of her lesson since showing up at any other time might seem suspicious.

“All right, maman,” she says. “I’ll go, and on my way back I’ll stop at UGIF to see if I can give you a hand.” Eva’s mother is the secrétaire générale for one of the departments there, and Eva, who has the nominal title of assistant typist, feels compelled to drop by occasionally just to protect her cover. “Besides,” she adds, “I need to see M. Weissman about our next ‘shipment.’” 


Not far off, in a luxury hotel requisitioned by the SD, Obersturmführer Klaus Barbie is briefing the half dozen men gathered in his office. In less than an hour, they’ll be setting up
a sourcière on rue Sainte-Catherine—a mousetrap, that is, which will be unnoticeable to their victims until they actually walk into the UGIF office. It’s the strategy Klaus prefers for congested areas like Old Lyon, and he doesn’t foresee any problems. His men, with one exception, are all from Section IV, so they’ll know what to do. And Stengritt, who’s the exception, is in another category altogether since Klaus is bringing him along as an assistant and personal bodyguard. Klaus doubts he’ll need a bodyguard—an operation like this, it should be child’s play—but he knows he can trust Stengritt. He’s solid and steady, the exact opposite of somebody like Koth who gets his jollies from playing the heavy.

When Klaus comes to the end of his briefing, he looks at the men ranged in front of him, letting his gaze rest on each of them in turn. “Any questions?” he asks. There’s a brief pause while he waits, but no one says anything. “All right, then,” he says, consulting his watch, “get yourselves ready. We leave in thirty minutes.”

Klaus waits until his men have left before getting out his own weapon, a 9 mm American pistol. He drops it into the holster fastened on the right side of his belt and glances at himself in the mirror beside his desk. The hôtel Terminus de Perrache specializes in mirrors (fancy wallpaper and sculpted wood paneling, too), all of
which Klaus considers rather decadent, effeminate actually, yet here he is, gazing at himself the same way a woman would. He frowns at his reflection, unhappy that the weight of the pistol makes his belt droop, which in turn spoils the lines of his new suit, a navy wool gabardine with the thinnest of pinstripes.

It had been made by a tailor he’d found in the back room of a dry goods store: a Pole and quite likely a Jew as well, but what does he care when the man is a genius with needle and thread? Klaus turns one way and then the other, admiring the fit of his new suit: the sleeves just the right length, the collar matching the curve of his neck exactly. He was lucky to have found someone so talented. Just putting on one of this man’s suits makes him look taller—or perhaps not taller exactly, since Klaus knows he’ll always look stunted next to a lanky good-looking guy like Stengritt—yet there is something about a suit with this kind of elegance that speaks for itself. Without any designation of rank, it announces to everyone that he is the chef.

9 o’clock in the morning

By the time Eva Gottlieb arrives at Mme Larcher’s, she’s a mess. Her hair is damp and stringy, and her shoes are so wet they squish when she walks. But Mme Larcher, as elegant and composed as ever, seems oblivious.

Entrez,” she says, ushering her pupil into a drawing room that is disconcertingly empty. Two years ago when Eva first started her lessons, there were paintings in heavy gold frames (originals, she thought) and delicate pieces of Limoges. Now all of those things have been sold, as well as the rugs and most of the chairs, leaving nothing of value except Mme Larcher’s grand piano. It stands near the window, glossy and black, its top lifted in a one-winged salute.

“I’m sorry I’m so wet, but it’s a nasty day,” says Eva, folding her umbrella and propping it in a corner.

Mme Larcher clucks sympathetically. “You are so right, my dear. But what can we do?” She helps Eva out of her coat and hangs it on a hook. “The important thing is that you’re here. So many of my students have . . . ” Her voice trails off, probably out of delicacy (a lady does not mention her poverty), but Eva knows how circumscribed her life has become. The bare room speaks for itself.

Hoping to change the subject, Eva pulls some sheet music out of her bag. “Look,” she says, “a friend from work let me borrow these Beethoven pieces. I thought maybe you could help me with them.”

Mme Larcher laughs good-naturedly. “You are ready for Beethoven?” she asks, but then adds in a more serious tone of voice, “Mais pourquois pas? In times like these, we need Beethoven more than ever.”

As Mme Larcher leads the way to her piano, Eva wonders about Jacques. Isn’t there a note from him? But Madame has said nothing, so she has to assume that there isn’t. 

Eva arranges herself on the bench, then spreads out her music on the rack. As always, she’s a little intimidated by this piano of Mme Larcher’s, which is not just a piano but a Blüthner, a make so renowned that it was the choice (as Madame often points out) of Liszt and Tchaikovsky. Even the last tsar had one. Eva’s playing is in sad contrast to this magnificent instrument, but she can’t help feeling excited. This is Beethoven after all! She straightens her back and takes a deep breath, ready to let her fingers drop onto the keys when Mme Larcher interrupts her.

“Oh, before we start, I should give you this,” she says, reaching inside her sleeve and extracting a small piece of paper that’s been folded so many times it’s hardly larger than a ration stamp.

Eva snatches up the scrap of paper. “Merci,” she says and slides it into her pocket. 

“Don’t you think you should open it?” asks Mme Larcher. “It’s from Jacques.”

Eva stares at her. How can she read a note from Jacques—a love note—with his mother sitting right there? Doesn’t she understand how impossible that would be?

But apparently Mme Larcher does understand because almost immediately she offers to make them some tea. “It’s such a frightful day, I think we need something hot,” she says and heads for the kitchen.

When she’s gone, Eva pulls the piece of paper out of her pocket, aware that her heart is pounding absurdly. She wishes she could be more dispassionate about Jacques, but it’s impossible. She loves him so much that everything having to do with him is somehow amplified. He laces up his boots and she cannot help but admire the brisk way he does it. He kisses the inside of her elbow and the sensation lasts all day. He tells her about the things he’s seen on his trips around the city—a car with a wood-burning engine, a pig being fattened in someone’s basement, a girl he knows walking arm in arm with a German—and she commits his stories to memory, just so she can have the pleasure of repeating them to herself later on.

She looks down at the note in her lap and tries to calm herself, but her hands are shaking so much she can barely undo the folds.


Meanwhile, thirteen-year-old Paul Guérin (it’s only a pseudonym, his real name is Benno Breslerman) has been at his workbench sewing pelts for the last couple of hours when M. Liwerant tells him to run over to UGIF. “They should be open by now,” he says,  “so see if you can’t get yourself a bicycle registration card.”

Paul quickly gets his coat and cap. The idea of a bicycle is irresistible: he sees himself floating down alleys, rounding corners as gracefully as a greyhound, slipping in and out of traffic . . .

“Mind you, though,” says M. Liwerant as Paul opens the door, “it’s for work only. Deliveries and pick-ups, that’s all.”

“Of course,” replies Paul as he steps into the street, where the wind throws sleet in his face. His coat, which his mother bought him back in Leipzig, is too small now, leaving his wrists sadly exposed. Nonetheless, it’s good to get away. M. Liwerant is so unrelentingly gloomy that Paul feels half-dead in his presence. Still, if the old furrier hadn’t taken him on as an apprentice, who knows where he’d be? Most likely in Vénissieux or one of Vichy’s other internment camps. He knows they’re not run by the Germans, but from what he’s heard they might as well be.


Sitting at her desk, Gilberte Jacob, a UGIF social worker who turned thirty only a week ago, is updating a list of possible lodgings. Some she finds in newspaper ads, but those go to the bottom of her list. Next come apartment buildings where they’ve placed people before; perhaps a room can be found in one of those apartments for a refugee family with nowhere else to go. Then, finally, there are the addresses vacated by former clients who have gone to the Italian zone or managed to cross into Switzerland. It’s tedious work, so tedious that when she glances at the clock she can hardly believe that it’s only twenty minutes after nine. She leans back in her chair and stretches, her slender arms spread out in a wide “V.” She could do with some coffee, she decides, but just as she’s about to get some, the door bangs open and five or six men barge into the office. They are wearing long leather coats and broad-brimmed trilbies.

Haut les mains,” yells one of them, lurching toward her with his gun drawn. Momentarily paralyzed, Gilberte stares at the barrel of the gun, trying to understand. The Gestapo? But why? UGIF is an authorized agency.

“I said, hands up,” he repeats, grabbing her under one arm and yanking her out of her seat.

Gilberte puts her hands up then, and he shoves her against a bank of filing cabinets where one of the drawer handles hits her in the small of her back. The pain is sudden and sharp, and she cries out, her voice just one among many as staff and clients alike are pushed against the walls.


Eva Gottlieb is still gazing at Jacques’s note when Mme Larcher returns with the tea. The message (just a few short words: Meet me tonight, seven o’clock, you know where) has revived her. She’s not thinking about her cold wet feet or M. Weissman’s sad little orphans now. That’s what the prospect of seeing Jacques does for her: all the day-to-day tensions fall away, leaving her on some other plane where she can forget and be young again—as young as any other girl her age.

Bonnes nouvelles, I hope,” says Mme Larcher as she hands her pupil a cup of tea.

Eva nods, looking at the delicate blue-and-white cup. It’s from Madame’s prized set of Meissen—or, rather, what’s left of it, since, according to Jacques, she’s had to let most of it go (four place settings for a sack of potatoes, a soup tureen for a rabbit which wasn’t even skinned). It saddens Eva to think about everything Mme Larcher has lost, but she can’t help being gratified by the compliment she is paying her. A year ago Mme Larcher would never have brought out her blue onion china for Eva. In fact, she probably wouldn’t have served tea at all.

It makes Eva think that if she and Jacques ever decided to get married, Mme Larcher might not oppose it. A vast social gulf stretches between Jacques’s family and her own, but war is a great leveler. If nothing else, it’s brought them together: two Jewish résistants who wouldn’t have met if it hadn’t been for a madman in Berlin ranting about racial purity.


On the narrow street in front of Number 12, André Deutsch, who’s just arriving, encounters a scrawny boy whose face is red with cold. “Is this UGIF?” the boy asks, gesturing toward the building beside him.

“It is,” says André, who pulls open the heavily sculpted door of Number 12 and gestures for the boy to precede him. Once they’re both inside, however, André is almost knocked over by the boy’s pungent odor. He has no idea how a city kid could have picked up this barnyard smell, but he’s so relieved to be making his last-ever delivery that he doesn’t give it much thought.

“Follow me,” he tells the boy and starts up the stairs, taking them two at a time, repeating to himself, over and over: My last trip, it’s finished, now I can breathe again. But then at the top of the stairs, as he fumbles for his key, he sees something behind the frosted pane of glass: a shadow or some kind of movement. But before he can make out what it is, the door swings open to reveal a figure in a long leather coat with a pistol in one hand.

“German police,” the man says, stepping forward and dropping a hand onto André’s shoulder, while another man, also in leather, grabs hold of the boy. For a split second, André considers wresting himself away—he pictures himself plunging down the stairs and disappearing into a traboule—but just as quickly he realizes how pointless that would be.

“Hand it over,” says the German, pointing to André’s briefcase. André complies—what choice does he have?—then watches as the Boche struggles with the clasps. “It’s locked,” he finally announces, looking up at André as if he’s never encountered an impediment of this sort.

André nods. “Yes,” he murmurs, his mind so foggy it’s as if he is dreaming.

“Well, are you going to give me the key or not?” asks the Boche.

With an effort, André tries to focus. “It’s in . . . in my . . . in here,” he says, fumbling under his coat and suit jacket for the key that’s buried in his waistcoat pocket.

“Well, hurry up,” says the man, ramming his pistol into the side of André’s neck.

André, feeling the cold metal of the barrel against his skin, finally manages to produce the key with shaking fingers. He holds it out on the palm of his hand, and the German snatches it up.

Then, only moments later, he’s whistling for his boss. “Chef, you won’t believe this,” he yells, smiling broadly enough for André to see his long yellow teeth. “There must be at least twenty or thirty thousand francs in here!”


Klaus is there to greet the next man who comes in.  He claims to be one of the administrators, but Klaus thinks he looks more like a circus clown in his battered old hat and saggy pants. After examining his ID (Maier Weissman, Polish refugee) Klaus searches him and his ruck. He ignores the pocket change, the food coupons, the motley collection of toys, but pauses a moment to look at the photos inside his wallet. Klaus always does this: partly because it’s useful to know if there’s a family, which might make a prisoner more susceptible to threats, but also because he’s interested in photography.

There are only two photos in Weissman’s wallet: one of a baby (dimpled, bald, the usual) and another of a woman, his wife probably, whose melancholy gaze reminds him of someone. He stares at the photo trying to jog his memory before realizing with a shock that he’s looking into a face so like his mother’s that, side by side, they could be confused. Quickly, he slaps the wallet shut and casts it onto the floor. His mother is a fine woman, but he doesn’t like to think of her when he’s at work. The two of them just don’t go together.

10 o’clock in the morning

A vicious wind slams into Eva Gottlieb as she struggles toward rue Sainte-Catherine, but she’s too busy thinking about Jacques to feel the cold. It’s been almost two weeks since they’ve seen each other, and she worries, just as she always does, that something might have happened during that time to diminish his interest in her. She tries to talk sense to herself (has anything diminished her ardor? No, of course not), but these days she doesn’t trust the solidity of anyone or anything. She doesn’t trust UGIF to protect the names of their foster mothers. She doesn’t trust the Szulklaper brothers, or at least not Victor. And she certainly doesn’t trust the exemption cards handed out by the Boches. They’re supposed to protect UGIF staff and their families from “all internment measures,” but Eva is doubtful. Her mother has one, and though it probably gives her a bit of extra confidence, Eva wishes she had a false ID instead.

It was Esther Grinberg, one of the administrators, who got Eva hers, but neither Mlle Grinberg nor anyone else at UGIF would authorize a false ID for Eva’s mother. There were more pressing needs, Eva was told: her mother was always at her desk, never leaving the office, not even for lunch, while there were others (Eva herself, for instance) who were so exposed they wouldn’t last a week without a French ID.

Eva has thought about getting her mother a card on the black market, but when she asked Victor if he could use his connections to help her get one, he told her a fake ID, if it was good, would cost as much as a refrigerator. After that Eva gave up, but now, just as she’s crossing the pont Morand, it occurs to her that Victor might have been lying. Perhaps, if you knew the right person, the price could be negotiated.

She’ll ask Jacques about it tonight, she decides, thinking ahead to their rendezvous, imagining how she’ll knock on the door and he’ll answer with his arms outstretched, ready to banish all the things she’s afraid of: the German checkpoints, the babies that won’t stop crying, the Alsatians on leashes that rip open the night with their barking.


By now, Klaus has set himself up at a big desk toward the back of the UGIF’s main room where he’s busy checking everyone’s papers, starting with the staff. He pays particular attention to the women, curious to see how they’ll react when Stengritt frisks them. But since Stengritt belongs to Section VI, he doesn’t go at it with quite the same fervor as the rest of Klaus’s men. It doesn’t make much difference, though, since the women all seem to age as soon as their pocketbooks are taken away. Their faces sag, their posture droops, their eyes start to wander aimlessly. Klaus can’t explain this, but it’s something that happens ninety-nine percent of the time. And if you take away a woman’s wedding ring (they’re not bothering with that now), the effect is even more pronounced.

When all of the female staff has been “processed,” Klaus asks which of them is the switchboard operator. Silence follows, but a few furtive glances guide him to a gaunt, frizzy-haired woman who stands toward the back of the group. Klaus, after ascertaining that she is indeed the operator, has her step forward and tells her to behave just as she would on any other day.

“When people call, tell them to come in as usual,” he instructs her, and she nods, looking as if he’d just told her to put her head in a vise.


Paul Guérin, the furrier’s apprentice, looks around the room where the Germans have shoved him. He is still smarting from his encounter with the pockmarked guy at the door who started knocking him around the minute he walked in. “Dirty Jew,” the man had snarled, “ you smell like a cesspool.” The blows hadn’t bothered Paul much—M. Liwerant is quick with his fists as well—but being told that he stinks was like having a knife sunk into his gut. Because how can he help it working with all those unwashed sheepskins? Of course the odor is going to soak into his pores. There just isn’t much he can do about it.

The side of the room he’s been sent to is crowded, so crowded Paul doesn’t know if he’ll be able to find a place for himself. But then, glancing around, he sees a teenaged girl who reminds him of his sister. Cheered by the sight of someone who seems so familiar, he starts to sit down on the floor beside her only to have her hold her nose and turn away as if he were contagion itself.

Feeling more like a pariah than ever, Paul searches the room again, but there’s no one who will even look at him. The exclusion is so complete that he’s afraid he’ll start crying, but then he spots the small bearded man he came in with and works his way over to him. “Je peux?” he asks politely, gesturing toward a spot on the floor beside him. There’s a moment’s hesitation and Paul braces himself for another rejection, but then a look of resignation passes over the man’s face and he scoots over to make room beside him. His name, he says, is Deutsch, André Deutsch.


Several miles away, in the suburb of Caluire, nineteen-year-old Chana Grinzpan slips out of her room and knocks on Edzia Rozenfarb’s door which is just one over from hers. Edzia was the first friend Chana made after fleeing Poland two years ago. They’d met in Paris where each of them lived in a flat backing up to the Passage Alexandrine: Mme Rozenfarb and her teenaged daughter on one side, Chana and her husband and their new baby on the other. To carry on conversations, all the two women had to do was open their back windows and yell across the alleyway. But then Chana’s husband was rounded up during the Vel’ d’Hiv rafle, and the two friends, frightened of being arrested themselves, pooled their funds and came here, to Lyon, which (at that time anyway) had seemed like a refuge.

Chana waits, then knocks again. “Edzia,” she says, pressing her lips to the wood of the door. A moment later the door opens a crack and Chana pushes her way in. “Edzia, you have to help me,” she says.

Edzia turns off the hotplate on which she’s boiling some groats. “Of course, but, please, keep your voice down. Jacqueline’s still asleep.”

Chana looks over at the divan where Edzia’s fourteen-year-old daughter is sleeping and nods. She doesn’t much care whether she wakes Jacqueline or not (what kind of princess is she, still asleep at this time of the morning?), but all the same she lowers her voice. “It’s the baby,” she whispers. “He’s sick again.”

“Oh, no,” says Edzia, a worried look crossing her broad comfortable face. “It’s not serious, is it?”

Chana considers. “No, I don’t think so. An earache maybe. But he should see a doctor, and I don’t know . . . ” Her voice trails off and she shrugs her shoulders.

For a moment, Edzia looks at Chana, so small she could pass for a twelve-year-old, and tries to think of a solution. “But, wait, isn’t this assistance day?” she asks.

“At UGIF, you mean?”

“Yes, it’s Monday, isn’t it? The doctor will be there along with that nice nurse of his— Marcelle, isn’t that her name? She’ll help you, I’m sure.”

Chana thinks about this. Marcelle is nice and so is Dr Lanzenberg, though he has a way of scowling at you the whole time you’re talking to him. But she knows that he’s a good doctor. “All right,” she says finally, “but won’t you come with me?”

Edzia sighs. “Chana, you know I have to work. It’s not much but . . . ”

“I know,” says Chana, and she does. The small salary Edzia earns checking out customers in a garment shop allows them to buy a few extra vegetables each month along with some pabulum for René. “I just wish . . . I mean, it’s so far, and sometimes the Métro . . . well, there can be checkpoints.”

Edzia frowns and wipes her hands on her apron. “Chana, really—” she begins, then stops herself.

“I know,” says Chana, sinking onto a chair, “you think I’m useless, a coward when it comes to—”

“No, I do not think you’re a coward,” says Edzia, raising her voice to a normal pitch. “We’re all afraid to go out on the streets. You’d be a fool if you weren’t.” She pauses for a moment, then continues: “But, Chana, you’re the mother. You have to take responsibility. You do understand that, don’t you?”

Chana looks down at her lap. She knows Edzia is right. She has to do the best she can for René, but why does she have to risk her life just to get a little medicine? 

She is about to say as much, but just then the figure on the couch stirs, and they both look over at Jacqueline, who sits up and blinks at them. “Chana, is that you?” she asks.

“Who else would it be, you sleepy head?” chides Chana, causing Edzia to smile. Chana may be five years older than Jacqueline, but the two girls are like sisters, teasing one another the way Edzia and her sisters had. Edzia had slipped out of the ghetto in Lodz just before it was sealed, but her two sisters and their families had stayed behind, too frightened to risk it, and since then she’s heard nothing.  

Looking first at her daughter and then at Chana, an idea suddenly comes to Edzia. “Chana, why don’t you wait until this afternoon to go to UGIF? Then Jacqueline could meet you there after her class and the two of you could come home together.” Edzia worries about Jacqueline coming home after dark, and she knows that both girls will be safer if they’re together.

“What a good idea,” says Chana, looking over at Jacqueline, who’s so French-ified she could pass for a jeune fille born and raised in Lyon. She speaks French without an accent. She wears her hair rolled back from her temples. She even takes apart her mother’s old dresses and remakes them in the latest styles. Short hemlines, broad shoulders, a felt corsage: she knows just what to do, thanks to her couture class. It’s really quite amazing.

“So it’s set then,” says Edzia, looking at the two girls who have settled side by side on the divan to work out the details.

Mais oui,” answers Jacqueline, smiling back at her mother like the angel she is. 


As soon as Eva Gottlieb opens the door to the office, a pockmarked man with heavy hands starts searching her. Eva, who’s more confused than frightened, looks around for her mother—where is she?—but the heavy-handed man redirects her attention with a vigorous slap. Automatically, Eva’s hand flies up to her cheek, but she drops it immediately, realizing that a reaction is probably what he’s after. Well, he won’t get one from her, she vows, forcing herself to watch dispassionately as he dumps the contents of her rucksack onto a nearby desk. He fishes out her ID and carte d’alimentation and hands them back to her, then starts poking through the rest of her things: two pencils and a pad of paper, her wallet containing a few francs, a tube of lipstick, a comb and some hair pins, a copy of the New Testament, a box of matches and a ball of string, a pair of child’s mittens—and the sheet music from her lesson, which the gestapiste now picks up and studies.

But this is too much for Eva. The rest of her things, yes, he can have them, but not the Beethoven. It’s not even hers, but Gilberte’s. “Please, I need that,” she says and holds out her hand.

“You mean this?” asks the man in clumsy French, dangling the music in front of her. Eva stares at him, taking in the grin on his face—a grin so ghoulish it reminds her of a skull—and snatches the music out of his hand. Then, not knowing what else to do, she rolls it up and slips it inside the sleeve of her coat. There, gone, out of sight.

The ghoul, having watched her little performance, shrugs his shoulders. “You want it so much, then go ahead, keep it,” he says and pushes her towards a desk at the back of the room where a man in a pinstriped suit is waiting.

11 o’clock in the morning

André Deutsch glances at his watch. It’s been two hours—just two hours!—since he was thrown into this holding pen. He thinks there’s a good chance that the Gestapo will let them go at the end of the day—that happens sometimes, after they’ve nabbed whoever it is they’re really after—but in the meantime it’s so crowded André can hardly breathe, much less move.

He looks over at Maier Weissman, his boss, who’s sitting on the floor wiping the sweat from his face and neck with a handkerchief. At his age and in his condition, he should have kept his chair, but that would have been impossible for Weissman. As soon as he saw a woman without one, he felt obligated to get up and give her his.

So what could André do? He had to give up his chair too, which would have been fine under ordinary circumstances, but not when everyone’s squeezed together like a bunch of Métro riders on their way to work. And then there’s the boy sitting beside him who stinks to high heaven. Really, it’s almost unbearable. André is certain that even rotting carcasses would smell better.


Meanwhile, Marcelle Loeb is struggling to keep up with Dr Lanzenberg as he strides across the place des Terreaux wearing the stoic expression of a warrior. Marcelle knows that some people consider him fractious, and in a way maybe he is, but he’s never angry at his patients, only at the conditions they have to put up with: malnutrition, overcrowding, poverty—and fear of course. Just this morning there was an emergency: a woman, in labor almost two days, with a husband too afraid to send for a doctor. It’s that sort of thing that enrages Dr Lanzenberg, because what could be worse—the poor woman’s in agony and the baby of course is dead. He ended up having to pull it out with forceps. Marcelle knows how distressing that was for him, but it was distressing for her too. She wishes he would talk to her about it. But she knows that he won’t because she’s only nineteen and not a real nurse, just a nursing assistant. He, on the other hand, had been the chef de clinique dermatologique in Strasbourg.

When they come abreast of the fountain with its galloping steeds, Dr Lanzenberg gestures toward a nearby pharmacie. Yelling to make himself heard over the wind, he asks her to buy some gauze pads and eyewash while he goes ahead to rue Sainte-Catherine.

Marcelle is dumbfounded. On a day like today when her feet are so numb they feel cut off from her body, he wants her to go shopping for incidentals? But she doesn’t argue with him. She’s tried it before and it only confuses him: he simply doesn’t understand why his orders would need to be revised.


Eva Gottlieb had hoped that the man in the pinstriped suit would let her go as soon as she handed over her documents and he saw that she had a French ID. But he only glances at her papers before confiscating them and ordering her into the back room where twenty or thirty people are bunched together on one side of the room. Eva is told to sit on the opposite side, however, which—except for a couple of people she doesn’t know—is unoccupied. Sitting down on the nearest chair, she frantically scans the room for her mother, but it’s a moment or two before she spots her standing in the corner next to Mme Freund, her Hungarian friend.

Eva, who is so relieved that she forgets where she is, smiles broadly and even waves. That’s how glad she is to see her mother. Actually, if she could, she’d like to sit down with her right now and tell her all about Mme Larcher and how she brought out her best china and doesn’t her mother think that’s encouraging . . . But Eva’s mother only frowns and gives a small shake of her head. At first Eva is puzzled but then she notices the guard standing just inside the door and decides that her mother is right. It’s probably better if he doesn’t know they’re related, because what would happen if he compared their IDs—one in the name of Aurélie Gottlieb, the other (Eva’s) in the name of Edmée Gardier? It wouldn’t make sense for two people with such different last names (and different addresses) to be mother and daughter. In fact, it would be a sure tip-off that one of their cards was fake.

Eva isn’t particularly worried, though. She imagines that some people will be hauled away to one of the internment camps, or perhaps even to Drancy, the transit camp just outside Paris, but she’s confident that she and her mother will both be released. Why wouldn’t they be? She has a French ID, and her mother’s exemption card, as far as Eva knows, is still good.


Not far away, in the working-class suburb of Villeurbanne, Victor Szulkapler and his older brother, Rachmil, are boarding the Métro on their way to see Weissman at UGIF. Rachmil is employed there, he even has an exemption card which says so. But his real work (not noted on the card) is helping Eva Gottlieb and her team smuggle Jews into Switzerland. But his smuggling interests go beyond Jewish children. Cognac, cigarettes, silk stockings and other luxury items: that’s what keeps the family in potatoes.

A few of the Métro passengers seem to be students, but for the most part they’re housewives with string bags who are on the hunt for a couple of eggs or a sliver of beef. All of them, though, whether young or old, have a gray, desiccated look.

Still, there’s one girl—a teenager with curly red hair—who gets Victor’s attention. She’s an audacious little thing, sitting there as cool as you please, applying lipstick as if no one was watching. And it’s not a virginal color either, like peach or pink, but a bright cannibalistic red.

He stares until Rach pokes him in the ribs. “You could take a picture, it would last longer,” he says under his breath in Polish.

Victor snaps out of his trance and looks at his brother. “Française,” he says automatically. “Parlez française.


A deep sense of gloom descends on Maier Weissman as more and more people are shoved into the back room. People he knows, people who have been coming in month after month, anxious or sometimes belligerent, but almost always embarrassed to find themselves at a welfare agency like UGIF.

Huddled in the corner next to a bin of old clothes are the Taubmanns, refugees from Austria who would much prefer to work than rely on hand-outs. Beno, their thirty-two-year-old son, helps out by giving private lessons in German, but he doesn’t earn much. What he needs are some lycée professors willing to refer their students, but so far that hasn’t happened.

And there, under the window, with his worn overcoat wrapped around him, is Jacques Peskind, a Latvian in his sixties whose French doesn’t go much beyond “Merci beaucoup” and “Je ne comprends pas.” In Riga he’d been a machinist; now he peddles newspapers and mourns his family.

And over there, standing beside some of the secretaries, is Erna Freund, who’d been a professional singer in Hungary. It’s hardest for people like her, Maier reflects. They’d always had money so they never learned to negotiate (no, it was easier just to pay the price). But now, here in Lyon, negotiating is all they ever do: Can’t I stay a few more days in this hotel? Won’t this ring (look, that’s a real ruby) do for the rent?


Because she is sitting directly across from the room’s open doorway, Eva Gottlieb is able to see the arrival of her friend Marcelle Loeb. Earlier, when Dr Lanzenberg had come in by himself, Eva had hoped that Marcelle was taking the day off or busy elsewhere, but here she is, cheeks pink from the cold, her arms full of parcels. Eva can see that she’s startled by the sight of the Gestapo, but if she’s frightened she manages to hide it well, even when the ghoul comes forward to frisk her. But then nurses are almost always calm, thinks Eva, watching as Marcelle is pushed in the direction of the pinstriped chef.

Vos papiers, s’il vous plait,” the man says, sounding more like a bureaucrat than a Gestapo agent.

But Marcelle isn’t paying attention. Instead, her eyes are fixed on Dr Lanzenberg’s bag which is lying on its side amidst a pile of discarded pocketbooks and rucksacks. Seeing it there, looking so forlorn and useless, she feels a sudden weakness wash over her. How will Dr Lanzenberg ever function without it? It’s as much a part of him as his arm or his leg.

Vos papiers,” repeats the chef, this time more brusquely, and Marcelle, with an effort, turns her attention to him.

“Oui, m’sieur,” she says and hands over her things: first her papers, then her pocketbook, and then, last of all, the parcels containing the gauze pads and eyewash.


When the Szulkaplers come in a little later, dressed in their berets and jackboots, André Deutsch feels almost giddy. Just look at them, he thinks. Any fool can see they’re up to no good. They’ll be arrested, he’s sure, and then the rest of them of will be able to go home.

André holds his breath, watching as the man at the door, the one with the pockmarked face and wolfish teeth, takes his time examining their IDs. He even calls over the pinstriped man for a consultation, but in the end nothing comes of it. The brothers are searched, relieved of their knives and brass knuckles, then waved into the back room along with everybody else.

André is devastated. They’re black market operators, aren’t they, so why weren’t they handcuffed and dragged off immediately? It just doesn’t make sense.


A little after that, Eva Gottlieb hears one of the gestapistes yelling out in German: “Look, here’s another Jewish kitten, and this one’s a redhead.” It’s her ghoul of course, busy harassing a pretty jeune fille, who, in spite of the dark red lipstick she wears, can’t be more than sixteen. 

Eva isn’t sure if the girl understands German, but judging from the horrified look on her face, Eva guesses she does. Still, when asked for her name, she’s cagey enough to answer in French. “Je m’appelle Lea Katz,” she replies, backing out of the door as she babbles something about having come to the wrong office.

“You see, my mother is very sick, and I’m looking for a doctor,” she tells the Boche, sounding distressed but not panicky. “I have no idea what’s wrong with her, but she has these horrible pains. I think it might be an appendicitis.”

Lea herself is amazed at how easily these words came to her, but it doesn’t matter, the German isn’t interested in her sob story. He grabs her by the arm and yanks her back into the office where his big hands go under her coat, aggressively patting her breasts, her hips, whatever else he can reach. She holds her breath while this is happening, but she knows she has no one to blame but herself. 

What was she thinking anyway, running after those two flashy gangstersEven now she isn’t quite certain what her plan had been, but she’d seen one of them (the one with the mustache) looking at her and she’d known that it wouldn’t be hard to chat them up, to flirt with them just enough to enjoy a bit of their largesse. And, besides, she hadn’t wanted that much, just a pair of silk stockings or a nice meal at Mere Brazier’s, that’s all. 


Panting a little after her run from the Métro station, Chana Grinzspan pauses for a moment in front of the UGIF office to collect herself. She pushes at her hair, which is wet from the snow, then unpeels some of the sweaters and scarves that she’s wrapped around René. Looking into his red little face—You’re feverish, aren’t you?—she feels something come loose inside her. If her baby should die after all she’s been through with him—the Vel’ d’Hive roundup, the hazardous trip across the ligne de demarcation—then why bother going on? She presses her baby’s hot cheek against her own and he whimpers weakly. Then, turning toward the door, she reaches for the handle, but no sooner has she touched it than the door opens by itself. And then a man—she knows he’s Gestapo—takes her by the shoulder and tells her she’s under arrest.

2 o’clock in the afternoon

Maier Weissman is feeling faint and there’s a constant ache in the small of his back, though perhaps that’s good since it keeps him from thinking too much about the reality of his situation. But there’s no pain in the world that can keep him from thinking about his family. About Miriam, for instance, whose birthday it is. She is sixty-two, not so old really, but he knows that she feels old (as does he, older and older every day). And then there’s Sylvie, their daughter: pretty, yes, but smart, too, good at languages especially, picking them up without any effort at all. It’s a shame she couldn’t have gone to university, but in times like these, well . . . yet marriage wasn’t the answer either. Because even if her husband is alive somewhere, he’s not with his family where he’s needed. It makes Maier sad to think about little Ezekiel growing up without a father, or possibly any male presence at all, if he, the grandfather, is also deported. But Maier pushes that thought away, returning instead to his wife’s birthday and the cake that Sylvie is probably icing right now.

Maier had worked hard to make that cake possible, begging a bit of sugar from four different friends in return for an invitation to the “party,” trading his gold cufflinks for the eggs and the cream, and, then, because he had no other choice, turning to the Szulkaplers for the chocolate, a commodity so rare it might as well be manna. But the important thing is that Miriam will have her cake, and even if he’s not there to see it, there’s nothing the Germans or Vichy can do now to interfere with that.


Climbing the stairs at Number 12, Michel Kroskof Thomas, who goes by the name of Sberro, has a premonition, of what he’s not sure, but for a moment it stops him. Squeezing his portfolio of drawings under his arm (it’s more of a prop than anything else), he reminds himself that all of his papers are excellent forgeries. Besides, he’s been ordered by the Armée secrete to do some recruiting at UGIF so he can’t leave without at least making contact. Michel listens a moment longer, debating with himself, then decides that there’s nothing to be alarmed about. He’s just on edge, that’s all.

But his premonition turns out to be right. No sooner is he on the landing, his hand on the handle, than the door is pulled open sharply by a man with a e t face. “Kommen Sie herein!” he says, smiling grimly at Michel with long yellow teeth. Michel is surprised but not really frightened. When you’ve been detained in an internment camp like Les Milles, you learn that being afraid is a waste of energy. Better to be reckless instead. If he hadn’t been, he’d still be there, instead of with the Armée secrète in Grenoble.

Quickly, he pulls out his portfolio and begins his spiel: He’s a poor artist, here to sell a few drawings, might you be interested, monsieur? He even takes out two or three of his sketches—he’s not a bad draftsman—and shows them to the man.

Eva, who’s watching from her perch in the back room, is impressed by this performance. She’s run into Michel from time to time, but she doesn’t know much about him. Still, she remembers something Jacques said once: that he’s a chameleon par excellence. It wasn’t exactly a compliment, but she understands now what Jacques meant when she sees the German leaning over one of Michel’s drawings as if he might actually be thinking of buying it.

Michel, who’s just as surprised as Eva by this show of interest, even starts to calculate a price in his head (who knows, maybe the man likes cathedrals), but then, before he can say another word, the Boche shoves him toward a big desk at the back of the room. “We must introduce you to the top man,” he says, pointing to a guy in a pinstriped suit.

Looking at him, Michel knows immediately that this is Klaus Barbie, the so-called butcher of Lyon. He knows this because once, when he and Jacques were walking along rue Merciere, Jacques pointed him out and said, “Notice how everybody jumps out of his way? That’s how you can tell it’s Barbie.”

Seen at close range, however, le boucher is less impressive than expected. The girlish complexion is bad enough (honestly, he’s as pink as a pig), but the silly blond quiff is even worse. Still, Michel has heard enough about the man’s methods to be worried. But Barbie isn’t interested in Michel. He takes only a cursory glance at his papers, then waves him into the next room, where he’s directed to sit on the left-hand side with a handful of others. One of them, he’s surprised to see, is Jacques’s girlfriend. Having met her only a couple of times, he can’t remember her name, but he gives her a small nod just for the sake of solidarity.


Eva Gottlieb returns Michel Krostof’s nod, but can’t help cringing inwardly. She doesn’t like being linked with him, or with Victor Szulklaper either. They’re too active, too visible, too flamboyant. But then it occurs to her that she is linked with them because here they all are, lined up together on the same side of the room with only a handful of others. If the one thing they all have in common is a French ID (which is what she assumes), then separating them makes sense. But what if that’s not the reason? What if the Germans have somehow found out about their illicit activities and are holding them as suspects? 

The thought throws her into a panic. She doesn’t know first-hand what goes on at the hôtel Terminus, but she’s heard plenty of stories from Jacques’s friends. How they inject acid into people’s bladders. How they use the hotel’s fancy bathtubs to hold people’s heads under water until they’re on the verge of drowning. How they have dogs that are trained to do unspeakable things to female
prisoners . . .

But then she stops herself. No! she can’t think about this, it’s too appalling. She takes a few deep breaths, then forces herself to think about something else: the ingredients for bouillabaisse, the kings of France going back to Philip II, the names of all her cousins in alphabetical order. But nothing helps. Her mind keeps sliding back to the hôtel Terminus.

Suddenly, though, she remembers the Beethoven scores. Why not study those? They’re certainly intricate enough. She picks up her coat from the floor and pulls the sheet music out of the sleeve. Looking down at “Für Elise,” which happens to be on top, Eva can hardly believe that she’d been playing (or trying to play) it for Mme Larcher only that morning. Madame had winced at every wrong note, but she hadn’t interrupted once—quite unusual for her since she generally has plenty to say. But the only things Mme Larcher said today were: “More emotion if you will” and “Eva, please, try to let yourself go.”

4 o’clock in the afternoon

Deciding it’s time to take matters into his own hands, Victor Szulkapler, the smuggler and occasional passeur, walks over to one of the Germans to tell him that he needs to go the lavatory. “A bad case of diarrhea,” he warns, and that’s enough, the Boche lets him go. Once inside the lavatory, Victor takes a deep breath and reminds himself that now is not the time to be sentimental. Sure, he’d like to save his brother, but how is he supposed to do that? Rachmil can’t speak French worth a shit and he carries around an ID bearing his real name. Victor’s ID, on the other hand, is in the name of Francois-Victor Sordier—a good French name that’s common, but not too common.

Using a bit of soap, Victor struggles to remove his pinky ring, but he can’t get it to budge. It’s almost as if the ring has become a part of his flesh. But finally, by holding his finger under cold running water and applying still more soap, he’s able to ease it past his knuckle and slide it off his finger. It’s too bad, he thinks, as he hides the ring behind a loose baseboard, because the diamond is real, but Rach has a ring just like it so he doesn’t dare keep it.


Chana Grinzspan’s baby is starting to fuss. She lets him suck on her finger, but she knows he’s hungry. Not only that, but she can feel her milk letting down, wetting the blouse she wears under her sweater. She looks over at Marcelle Loeb who is standing nearby—Marcelle, the doctor’s assistant who always knows the right thing to do—but she can tell by the look on her face that Marcelle is frightened too. Hugging René close to her, Chana feels a fist closing around her heart. If even Marcelle is scared, then they all must be doomed.


When he returns from the lavatory, Victor Szulkapler catches Rach’s eye just long enough to make it clear that, from here on out, they’re no longer brothers. In fact, they don’t even know each other. Then, with as casual an air as possible, he approaches the German who seems to be called Stengritt, choosing him because he seems at least moderately intelligent and not quite as much of a Schweinhund as the others.

S’il vous plait, monsieur,” he says to him in a nonchalant tone with just a hint of pugnacity in it, “but how much longer am I going to have to sit here?” He looks at his watch in mock frustration and continues: “I mean, it’s been three hours already, and I don’t know about you, but I have work to do.” He pauses. “Besides, I’m French, not Jewish. The only reason I came here today was to meet a friend—a friend who never even showed up.”

Eva Gottlieb, who is watching this, looks over at Michel Kroskof, her fellow-résistant, knowing that he must be thinking the same thing she is: that if the Gestapo lets Victor go, then there’s reason to hope, but if they don’t . . . well, who knows.

Together, they watch intently as the yellow-haired German retrieves the stack of confiscated documents from the chef and starts going through them. Victor, standing on the sidelines, seems impressively blasé while this is going on, but what Eva and Michel don’t know is that it’s only a pose. In reality, every cell in Victor’s body is quaking. He’s reasonably certain his carte d’identité is good—it should be since he paid dearly for it, but you never know— sometimes there’s a small inconsistency or a stamp that’s missing—it’s ridiculous how much Germans love their stamps, everything always has to be so official with them—it makes it hard for the counterfeiters to keep up . . . But at last Stengritt locates Victor’s papers and declares them to be in order.

“What a country,” he says as he hands them to Victor. “You can’t even tell a Jew from a Gentile.” Victor has no idea what this means—Do they know his card is a fake? Is that the message?—but he keeps his face as mask-like as possible, waiting until he’s on the sidewalk in front of Number 12 before permitting himself to breathe again.


In spite of the slushy streets, only half-cleared of snow, Jacqueline Rozenfarb is buoyant as she walks along rue Sainte-Catherine to meet Chana Grinzspan. When Jacqueline started her couture course, she hadn’t expected to be the star of the class (she’d never even thought she had much aptitude for sewing), yet somehow her fingers seem made for this work and no one gets as much attention from Mme Doucet as she does. Today, for instance, they had to set sleeves into armholes. For most of the girls, it was tedious work, pinning, basting, clipping, then ripping the whole thing out and doing it all over again because Madame was so hard to please. But Jacqueline had no trouble: she was able to ease her wool crepe sleeve into place after only one try and without so much as a single pucker. Mme Doucet actually stopped the class so she could show them Jacqueline’s work. The other girls stared at her, some of them resentfully, but Jacqueline hung her head and did her best to look embarrassed. The praise was as welcome as sunshine, but she couldn’t afford to be arrogant, not with a name like Rozenfarb.

Almost all of the light has gone out of the sky by the time Jacqueline arrives at Number 12, a building which always strikes her as dismal, even a little ominous. Inside the foyer, she pauses a moment to blow on her poor frozen fingers, then starts up the stairs which are so dimly lit she practically has to feel her way up them. The building seems quiet, much quieter than on past visits, but it’s a soothing kind of quiet, permitting her thoughts to slide back to Mme Doucet. In the beginning, Jacqueline had been terrified of her. She was so tall and austere and pulled her hair back into such a tight little chignon it was hard to believe that anything would ever please her. And of course she’s still this way, except now she’s the artiste Jaqueline wants to become. Someday the war will end—it has to—and then she and her mother, and maybe Chana too, will go back to Paris and Jacqueline will be able to get a job in one of the ateliers, Chanel’s perhaps, because she’s sure to reopen, or if she doesn’t then one of the others, Scaparelli’s, for instance, or Balenciaga’s or . . .

But she is wrenched out of her reverie as soon as she opens the door to the office and sees a man with a gun in his hand. She is so startled that for several moments she’s unable to move or speak or even take in what is happening. 

Juif?” asks the man, smirking as he looks her over. His teeth, she notices, are long and yellow, like a dog’s.

Française,” she replies, and it’s not a lie, she really has become French. Poland is so long ago, she can’t even remember it.

He looks her over once more, then asks again, “Mais, Juif?”

There’s a hint of confusion in his question, however, and once again she answers, this time even more confidently, “Non, Française.”

Unfortunately, though, her ID says otherwise, and she is pointed in the direction of the back room where she is told to wait. Confused, she looks from one side of the room to the other, unable to understand. Who are all these people—sixty or seventy of them at least—and what are they doing here? Then she hears a baby crying and, turning toward the sound, sees Chana Grinzspan standing next to the window with little René. She tries to guess from Chana’s face what’s going on, but all she sees there is terror.

A cold sick feeling goes through her then as a voice from within tells her that this is the end: she will never finish her class now, never see her mother again, never even live to be fifteen. But then, just as the room around her is starting to spin, a petite young woman comes forward and takes her by the hand. 

“Why don’t you come sit by me?” she says, but Jacqueline is too frightened to respond. “It’s all right,” adds the woman, squeezing her hand. “My name is Gilberte Jacob and I’m a social worker.”

5 o’clock in the evening

Redheaded Lea Katz is sitting on the floor next to M. Weissman, and she knows he is doing his best to calm her: a pat on the knee, a less-than-convincing smile whenever he thinks to look her way. But it doesn’t help. It’s nearing the end of the day and everyone is restless. Some are praying, others weeping. People come up to M. Weissman and murmur into his ear—What will they do? Send us to a camp? Let us go? Take the men, leave the women?— but M. Weissman only shrugs his shoulders. He doesn’t know any more than they do.


Chana Grinzspan is beside herself. She’s tried everything she can think of to calm René—rocking him in her arms, hoisting him over her shoulder, massaging his belly—but nothing helps, he just won’t stop crying.

And the Boches are losing patience, especially that yellow-haired man. Catching one of his sour looks, Chana starts jostling René desperately (Please, little baby, be good)then presses his furious face to her bosom in an effort to muffle his screams. But it’s too late, the man is already elbowing his way toward her.

“What’s wrong with the kid?” he asks in French.

But Chana is too petrified to answer. She backs away, afraid that he’ll take René, or even pull out a pistol and shoot him.

But he only repeats the question, and this time Chana manages an answer. “He’s hungry, that’s all,” she says, her voice quivering.

The German shakes his head and says, “Puis allez lui donnez du chaud.”

Chana stands there dazed. Is he telling her to go and get her baby some hot food? Is that really what he means? But then he gestures toward the door and gives her a little shove, so it’s clear, even to her, that she’s being released. She quickly wraps up René while he finds her ID, then heads for the door, plunging through the crowd like a woman running from a fire. 

At the last moment, though, she turns and looks back at Jacqueline Rozenfarb, wondering how she’ll ever explain this to Jacqueline’s mother (I escaped, but, sorry, I had to leave your daughter behind). It’s only a fleeting thought, though, because Chana knows that there’s no time to lose. She’s got to get out of here—right now, this very instant—before the Boches change their minds and drag her back.


As Klaus is making a last tour of the back room, he notices a mousy young girl whose head is bent over something in her lap. He can’t tell what it is, but she’s so completely engrossed in it that she seems to float inside a peaceful bubble belonging to her alone. Curious, he moves closer, then sees that it’s sheet music.

“This is yours?” he asks, picking up the music from Eva Gottlieb’s lap without bothering to ask her permission.

“No, not exactly, I borrowed it from a friend,” the girl stammers as he looks down at what is the score for “Für Elise,” a piece his mother taught him to play. Not that he was ever much of a piano player—he wasn’t, he simply didn’t have her touch—but it was one of her favorites and so he’d kept at it. It’s the only serious piece of music he ever committed to memory. Strange that he’d run into it here, he thinks, turning the pages and following the melody until, at some point, he starts to hum it.

Eva, who is watching from the corner of her eye, is amazed. If she’s ever going to plead her case then the time is now.

 “That’s what I’ve been working on,” she ventures, making an awkward stab at conversation. He doesn’t reply, though, so she tries again: “At my lesson, I mean. It was just this morning, before I came here.”

He glances at her briefly. “Compris,” he says and returns to the music.

Frustrated, Eva decides on a more direct tack. “But, monsieur, don’t you recall that I am French? If only you’d take another look at my ID, you’d see . . . ”

Her voice trails off and Klaus looks down at her, noticing that her skin is so pale he can see the web of blue veins at her temple. “But if you’re French, what are you doing here?” he asks. “This is a Jewish agency.”

“I know, but I had to return the sheet music I’d borrowed.”

Klaus regards this as an unlikely excuse. “Who’d you borrow it from? Is that person here?”

The girl looks uncomfortable and for several long moments says nothing. Eventually, though, she points to a young sparrow-like woman on the opposite side of the room whose name, she says, is Gilberte.

Klaus crosses the room and stands in front of her. “So tell me, Gilberte, is this music yours?”

Oui, monsieur,” she says, looking directly at him. “We both study with Mme Larcher.” Then, after a pause, she adds, “Perhaps you’ve heard of her. She is a remarkable teacher.”

The conversational way she says this—as if they were at a party, as if she were advising him to take lessons too—startles Klaus and he stands back to take a better look at this puny, insolent woman. He’s on the verge of slapping her (the Jews, they always think they’re so clever), but she quickly bows her head and he makes do with a grunt instead. He thrusts the music at her. “Here, take it,” he says and walks back to the Beethoven girl.

“So you’re French, are you?” he asks, surveying her carefully. It is possible that she’s here just by chance, just as she claims, but he still thinks she’s as Jewish as anyone else in this room.

“If only you’d check my ID, then you’d see—”

“Yes, yes,” he replies impatiently. “But what do you say?”

My name is Edmée Gardier, monsieur, and I was born in Saint-Pierreville, just two hours south of here. That makes me French.” It is a stout response, but beneath the starchiness of her voice Klaus thinks he hears a slight tremor.

“So how long have you been taking lessons?”


“The piano. If you’ve worked your way up to Beethoven, you must be serious.” Eva is about to say that she’s mediocre, not much of a student at all, but then she catches on and says, “Oui, monsieur. Music is my passion.”

“Ach,” is all he says, but she can tell he’s debating her case. Elation bubbles up inside her and she thinks fleetingly about Jacques, who is probably waiting for her right now at his cousin’s flat. It’s late, almost six o’clock, and the flat is on avenue Berthelot, way over on the other side of the Rhône, but if she leaves right away she won’t be terribly late, and Jacques will wait for her, she’s sure of that . . .

“Yes, all right,” the Gestapo chef says finally, scowling at her. “Just pick up your papers from Stengritt”—he points to the tall blond-headed man—“and then you can go.”

But suddenly Eva isn’t sure. She wants to leave, of course she does, but what about her mother? She can’t just walk out and leave her behind, can she? Eva is still reasonably certain that even if they arrest everybody else they’ll still let the staff go, but what if she’s wrong? Then she might never see her mother again. Eva steals a quick peek at her mother, but her mother’s face is insistent: Don’t throw away this chance, Eva. Go now before you lose your nerve. Still Eva hesitates. Her father is gone, her brother too, and she doesn’t want to be alone, she can’t be! It would be unbearable. She looks down at the floor and back again at her mother, who this time goes so far as to shake her head. It’s a very minimal shake, but the chef still sees it.

“What’s the problem?” he asks. “Do you know this woman? Is she related to you?”

Non, bien sûr que non,” Eva insists, but something inside her stops. Staying would be so easy. It would require nothing of her, just a quiet submission, that’s all. And then everything would be over: no more hiding babies in rucksacks, no more waiting in ditches for patrols to pass, no more barking dogs straining on leashes. She glances at the door and thinks how far away it is, impossibly far. And her feet are so heavy, too heavy even to lift. No, better to stay and be here with her mother. Family is the only thing that matters now.

But then an image of Jacques floats into her mind. She sees him quite clearly—the thick dark hair (such lovely hair), the impudent grin, the eyetooth that projects just a little—and she suddenly realizes that everyone here, even her mother, belongs to the past. Only Jacques can offer her a future: a home, a family, a place for herself on this earth when the fighting finally comes to an end . . .

“Well, are you going or not?” asks the chef. His tone is menacing.

Eva looks at him blankly. “Oui, monsieur,” she says, so detached from this moment that she seems to be watching the scene from above. She sees the Nazi in his pinstriped suit and herself, an insignificant girl wearing black woolen stockings and a shapeless jumper. For a moment this lifeless girl stands there, but then, slowly, she turns and in a way that is almost robotic starts moving away. Someone (Mme Freund perhaps?) picks up her coat and hands it to her—Here, Eva, you’ll need this—and then, somehow, she’s standing in front of the blond-haired man being handed her documents.

Merci,” she says automatically and drifts closer to the door, aching to look back at her mother—just one last glimpse, is that too much to ask?—but knowing that it’s far too risky. Yet she can’t bear to part this way. It’s so heartless, so cold. But what choice does she have? Maman, I love you, I do! she whispers, willing her mother to somehow hear this secret farewell as she, Eva, steps through the door and enters a stairwell so narrow and dark it feels like a tunnel.

6 o’clock in the evening

Convinced that no one else will be coming in, Klaus walks over to the switchboard operator and tells her to join the people in the back room. After that, anyone who calls will be greeted by one of his men saying, “Es ist fertig mit diesen Leuten (It’s all over with those people).”

Then the men are called. The Boches are polite—Form groups of twelve, but hurry, please, your transport is waiting—and the men get up. With a collective sigh of relief, they stretch themselves, exchange looks, hope for the best.

Rach Szulkapler, brother-less now, finds himself in the first group along with Dr Lanzenberg and Paul Guérin, the furrier’s apprentice who smells of death. The Taubmanns, father and son, go into the third group along with Jacques Peskind, the Latvian news peddler, while Maier Weissman and André Deutsch are put in the next-to-the-last group.

Counting them a final time, the Germans discover they’re one short. But then an old man, the kind who’s almost never seen anymore, with side locks and a long fuzzy beard, is found praying in a corner of the back room. One of Klaus’s men goes to pry him away, and he doesn’t resist, only looks around and blinks his rheumy eyes in wonderment.


Victor Szulkapler is watching from a darkened doorway when the first group of men emerges. Catching sight of Rachmil, he thinks his brother looks stronger and healthier than the others. At least he has a little meat on his bones. And he’s better prepared, too, the only one with a decent pair of boots.

But why in God’s name hadn’t he been a little more adept—worked on his French and seen to it that he had a proper ID—but, no, Rach was the older brother, he always had to know better. It was maddening . . . But, still, what will Victor do without him? Just look at him, will you, the way he leaps into the back of the truck: it’s magnificent, almost beyond belief, an unforgettable feat that leaves Victor so shaken he can hardly breathe.


There are still two groups of men waiting to be led down the steps when sixteen-year-old Lea Katz finally comprehends that she’s going to be taken away. Somehow she’d talked herself into believing that they’d release the women, or at least anyone like herself who is under eighteen, but she sees now that there are no distinctions. Already, the Boches are nudging the women into line, telling them to gather up their things so they’ll be ready. Lea, dizzy with fear, looks around for the guy who called her “kitten”—he thought she was pretty, didn’t he?—but the man is nowhere to be seen. She spots his boss, though, the one in the pinstriped suit, and quickly goes over to him.

“My mother is very sick, so I’ve got to go home tonight because there’s no one else to take care of her,” she tells him in a torrent of French. He doesn’t respond, though, and so she adds, “Tomorrow morning, I’ll go wherever you want me to, I promise, but tonight—”

He interrupts her then, saying in German that he hasn’t understood a word she’s said. It’s a lie, though, and Lea knows it because she’s heard him speaking French, but of course she can’t say this. Instead, she grabs him by the elbow and repeats everything she’d said before, except this time in German.

For a moment he seems dumbfounded. But then he looks down at her hand on his elbow and his face darkens. “Das Freche dings vas du bist (You insolent little thing),” he says, barking it out so loudly that the room falls silent. “When you came in here, you pretended you didn’t know German.” She shakes her head at this, but he continues: “No, I saw you. Koth was speaking German to you, but you spoke French back to him.” He gives her a venomous look. “But you speak it well enough when you want to beg, don’t you?” And then without warning, he raises his hand and slaps her hard, once on each cheek, so that she’s spun one way and then the other. She staggers backward, expecting to be hit again, but then, just like that, his manner changes.

“You may go,” he tells her calmly. “Just find your pocketbook and bring it to me.” Lea doesn’t understand, but she digs through the mound of discarded bags until she comes to the little red purse that her mother gave her on her last birthday. She hands it to him, then watches as he extracts a couple of stamps. “Use these for the streetcar,” he tells her. “Then come to the hôtel Terminus tomorrow and I’ll give you back your bag and ID.” He pauses, then adds, as if she didn’t already know, “The SD is located there.”

She nods dumbly, ready to promise anything, when he says, apropos of nothing, “We’re going to let all of you go anyway.”

It is an extraordinary statement, but she doesn’t contradict it. She’s ready to believe anything, anything at all, if only it will help get her out of here. But if he thinks she’s going to present herself at the hôtel Terminus tomorrow, he’s deluded. Because the only place she’ll be tomorrow is at the salon de coiffeur’s having her red hair dyed black.


Jacqueline Rozenfarb, who has watched all of this, studies the pinstriped man from the corner of her eye. She’s afraid of him, very afraid, but he let the redheaded girl go, didn’t he? So maybe he’d let her go too. But how can she approach him? And even if she did, what would she say to him? She pictures herself standing in front of him like a ninny, just waiting to be slapped.

But then the Boche—the hideous one, the one with the long yellow teeth—smacks her hard on the rump. “Get into line, will you?” he growls, and she looks around, realizing that there are only a couple of dozen people left, all of them women. In other words, just two groups. That’s how close the end is. And she knows that if she does nothing, she’ll be swept up along with the rest of them and taken to one of those horrible camps where her mother will never be able to find her. She peeks at the chef again, and determining that there’s no other way, she braces herself to go up to him. But then she spots Gilberte Jacob, the social worker who’d helped her before, and runs over to her instead.

“Please, Gilberte, help me,” she pleads. “I’m only fourteen and my mother’s at home, waiting for me. I can’t let them . . . I mean, the only reason I came here was to meet Chana . . . you know, the one with the baby. Otherwise, I wouldn’t even be here.”

Gilberte takes a deep breath. She cannot petition the chef, not after their previous exchange, but perhaps she could try that tall blond-headed man, the one who seems more or less reasonable. “All right,” she says, “I’ll see what I can do.”

Quickly, she walks over to where he is standing, clipboard in hand. “S’il vous plait, monsieur,” she says, trying to get his attention as he checks names off a list, “but I need your assistance.”

He barely looks up. “Geh fort,” he barks.“Kannst du nicht sehen, das ich beschattigt bin?” Gilberte understands only enough German to know that he’s dismissing her, but the shove that follows is unambiguous. Though it’s not hard enough to knock her over, it still makes her stagger. “Go on, get into line with the others,” he adds in French, gesturing toward the more obedient women who are waiting quietly by the door.

Gilberte starts to back away—the cause is probably hopeless anyway—but then a surge of anger goes through her, galvanizing her. “No, you don’t understand. This isn’t for me, it’s for her,” she says, turning to wave Jacqueline over. But the girl, half-hidden behind a bank of file cabinets, appears petrified. “C’mon, Jacqueline, don’t waste this man’s time,” she says sharply, so sharply that Jacqueline scurries over. Gilberte takes a quick look at the Boche (amazingly, there’s an expression of detached amusement on his face) and pushes Jacqueline forward. “You see,” she says, “cette petite isn’t even fifteen, and besides she is French. It’s only by chance that she ended up here. She just dropped by to meet a friend.”

The German looks closely at Gilberte and then at Jacqueline, who, though small to begin with, seems to shrink even more under his gaze. “Wait, I’ll talk to the chef,” he says, then crosses the room to intercept him.

Gilberte, who watches as the two men converse, thinks they look rather comical standing side by side: one tall, a natural soldat, a warrior, if you will; the other, in spite of his fancy suit, short and faintly absurd—a natural tyranneau. But as soon as she thinks this, she looks down at the floor for fear they’ll see her face and know what she’s thinking.

Jacqueline says nothing as they wait, but Gilberte, who is holding the little girl’s hand, can feel her quivering. Then their intermediary returns: “Libre,” he says simply and hands over Jacqueline’s ID.

Jacqueline is overcome. She can go home, she’ll see her mother again, she’ll even be able to finish her class. The other women gather around her, caressing and kissing her as they beg her to tell their families what’s happened. She promises them that, yes, she’ll do her best, but it isn’t easy escaping from them. Finally, though, she extracts herself and pushes her way to the door, where she stops to look back at Gilberte.

Gilberte, who’s a professional, a trained social worker, forces herself to smile: it’s her job. But beneath the smile, a dark shard of resentment cuts through her: Why is she always the one who saves others? Why can’t someone come along and save her?

At the end of the day

As soon as the women are loaded, the two canvas-topped lorries pull away from the curb in front of Number 12 rue Sainte-Catherine and head south toward the tip of the Presqu’il, that long peninsular finger which divides the Saône River from the Rhône River.

Maier Weissman, who sits near the back of the lead truck, watches as the familiar streets pass by, his thirsty eyes soaking up whatever they chance upon: news vendors hawking their papers, last-minute shoppers rushing to get home, storekeepers rolling up their awnings for the night. Then suddenly the Gare de Perrache lurches into view and Maier realizes that they’re on his street, actually passing in front of his building. Eagerly, he looks up at his third-floor apartment, hoping for a last glimpse—Mariam holding up her birthday cake, Sylvie blowing him a kiss, little Ezekiel waving and grinning—but the window is dark. It’s the blackout blinds, of course. How could he have forgotten about them? It’s a small comfort to know his family is there on the other side of them, like players on a stage who are hidden from the audience, but realizing, as he does now, that he’ll never see them again, not even from a distance, is devastating—a crushing pain that he feels right in the center of chest, which is heartbreak, yes, but also a very real attack of angina.

Soon, however, the Perrache is left behind and the Rhône comes into view. It is here that the drivers gun their engines, barreling across pont Gallieni and onto avenue Bertholet, a broad thoroughfare where people huddle at bus stops, stamping their feet and watching for a bus that may or may not arrive.

Eva Gottlieb is there, too, in a flat facing the street, so close in fact that if only she’d known, she could have leaned out a window and yelled to her mother as she passed. But Eva, who’s as far away from the window as she can get, is curled up in a fetal position on a bed that doesn’t belong to her, or to Jacques either. He hovers over her, rubbing her back, whispering into her ear, telling her, over and over, that he’ll be her mother, her father, her brother, whatever she needs him to be, but the words, though she hears them, aren’t really words, just sounds strung together. She stares at the wall in front of her and then at the bedside table, empty except for a blue-and-white tin of Pastilles Vichy. Idly, she pries off the lid with her fingernail and examines the little white mints inside which seem so pointless and sad. Because who can eat candy now? 

In the meantime, only a little east of her, the lorries turn into Fort Lamothe, a military compound that’s been taken over by the Wehrmacht. The trucks make their way through the heavy iron gates, then pull up in front of the barracks where an officer is waiting to take delivery. The driver of the lead truck jumps down and confers with him briefly before handing over the manifest.

It tells him there are eighty-six prisoners in all, sixty-two of them men and twenty-four of them women, including:

five between the ages of thirteen and twenty, 

eight between twenty and thirty, 

twenty-one between thirty and forty,

thirty between forty and fifty,

thirteen between fifty and sixty, 

eight between sixty and seventy, and 

one between seventy and eighty.

Among them, there are: 

twenty-two Poles,

fourteen persons who consider themselves French but are disavowed by Vichy, 

twelve Austrians,

four Germans,

four Czechs,

three Hungarians, 

three Romanians, 

two Russians, 

one Latvian,

six stateless persons and one indéterminé.

After a careful study of this paperwork and a final bit of discussion (the SD does not really trust the Wehrmacht), the prisoners are ordered out of the trucks. Shivering in the icy air, they shake off their stiffness, then look around, first at the stony walls before them and then at the blank sky overhead. No one says anything, but each of them is searching for the same thing: a single star, just one, which can offer them some small measure of hope. But there is nothing to see because clouds have covered over everything.

– The End –

Novel Excerpt

Rendez-vous at Caluire

Wednesday, November 11, 1942 – Lyon, France

Jean opened his eyes to early morning darkness and fumbled for the pack of cigarettes on his nightstand. It was shameful, being such a slave to tobacco that he couldn’t get out of bed without having a cigarette first, but what could he say? Smoking was the only extravagance he permitted himself (unless perhaps you counted Colette, which you really couldn’t). Besides, he was frugal in almost every other way: nothing but fifteen-franc lunches, suits so worn they would have disgraced a scarecrow, a single room hardly larger than a monk’s cell. Anyone who’d known him two years ago would have been dumbfounded by the meagerness of his current life, he reflected, drawing the smoke deep into his lungs for the first and only head rush of the day. He’d been a préfet then, an exalted servant of the state living in a préfecture surrounded by wrought iron and appearing at public events in a uniform with fringed epaulets. But that career had ended with the arrival of the Germans. Now he had a new job, which was organizing the fight against them—an assignment that had come straight from General de Gaulle himself.

A sudden rapping at the door interrupted his thoughts: one heavy knock, a beat, then two lighter knocks. Alain? he wondered, putting down his cigarette and pulling on his pants. Well, obviously, that was his knock, but why come so early? The rest of Jean’s day would be filled with a series of rendezvous, strategy meetings, arguments and complaints. Couldn’t he have just fifteen minutes to himself at the start of his day? Was that too much to ask? But apparently it was, since he had a secretary so afraid of being late that he almost always arrived early. There were worse things, Jean supposed, but as he padded across the room to open the door for Alain, he couldn’t think what they would be.

Bonjour,” said Alain as soon as Jean opened the door, jumping inside so quickly that Jean had to take a step back. Alain was high-strung by nature, but he seemed unusually tense this morning.

“Are you all right?” Jean asked, taking a close look at the boy.

“Of course I’m all right,” answered Alain peevishly. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

Jean shrugged, deciding that if something was wrong it must be personal. Alain was so slight he always reminded Jean of an elf, but that didn’t preclude a love life. Some girl—Suzette perhaps—might have done him wrong. Suzette was useful in any number of ways, but she was a relentless flirt. She’d be quite capable of flustering someone like Alain, who’d lived a monastic life, first in Catholic boarding schools, then in Nissen huts while training with the Free French Forces in Hampshire, England. It was unlikely he’d ever even been alone with a girl, much less slept with one unless perhaps it was a putain.

“Well, sit down then and start reading me the papers,” Jean said, gesturing toward the table which stood by the window overlooking the Rhône. It was how they always started their day: with Alain reading the newspapers aloud while Jean shaved and dressed.

But Alain only shook his head. “Sorry, no papers today,” he said, holding out a thick stack of messages instead. Jean looked at his adjutant in surprise. Reviewing the messages that had come in overnight was always their second order of business, and Alain was not the type to break with routine. Suddenly alarmed, he pulled out a chair and snatched up the first of the decoded transmissions:

Etes compagnon Libération, je dis compagnon Libération—amicales felicitations de tous.

For several long moments, Jean stared at the words—personal words, words addressed to him alone—yet he couldn’t make sense of them. Surely there must be some mistake. But no message could have been clearer or more to the point: Charles de Gaulle, who headed the Free French Forces in London, was designating him a Companion of the Liberation. It wasn’t the highest honor de Gaulle could have bestowed, but it was so beyond anything Jean had expected that he sat there stunned, feeling unworthy, almost ashamed. Naturally, he had plans for the Resistance, plans that he’d confided at one time or another to de Gaulle, but as of yet that’s all they were—just plans.

Alain cleared his throat then, and Jean, who had nearly forgotten about him, looked up to see him standing at attention and nodding his head ecstatically. Afraid of what he might be about to blurt out, Jean looked back at the scrap of paper and frowned. “There are more important things to transmit at the moment,” he said. “When I think that London put the life of a radio operator at risk for this . . . ”

But before he could go any further, Alain interrupted him with what must have been a prepared speech. “Permit me to congratulate you with all my heart,” he said, stammering a little, “for this great honor which you so richly deserve.”

Jean groaned inwardly, but Alain wasn’t finished. With a flourish worthy of a magician, he produced a cone of newsprint from behind his back and handed it to his boss. What next? thought Jean, taking the cone and peeking inside. But he laughed as soon as he saw what was there—a croissant and a brioche, both of them still warm.

“But pâtisseries like this are forbidden,” he said, looking up at Alain, whose face had turned a bright shade of pink. “How the devil did you manage it?”

“I told the clerk it was for my sister’s birthday,” grinned Alain, looking as pleased with himself as if he’d just derailed a troop train or uncovered a nest of infiltrators.

Jean lifted his eyebrows. Tricks like this were against his rules—they were too risky, too likely to draw unwanted attention—but Alain was so excited he couldn’t bear to lecture him just now.

“Here, you choose,” he said, extending the newspaper-wrapped pastries toward Alain. “No, really,” he insisted, “take the one you want. After all, you were the one who went to get them.”                                                                                                                                             

*          *          *

For the next several hours, the two men sat at Jean’s oilcloth-covered table working their way through the stack of WT messages. If a response was required, Jean dictated it to Alain, who would see to it that the message was passed on to a wireless operator for later transmission. It was time-consuming and tedious work, however, so by the time they came to the last message (a short one announcing General Delestraint’s appointment as commander-in-chief of l’Armée secrète), it was nearly noon.

“What do you say,” said Jean, stretching his arms over his head and grunting. “Le Coq au vin for lunch?”

Outside on the street, the sky was gray and thick with clouds. It wasn’t winter yet, not quite anyway, but Jean knew that the nice days were behind them now. Only the Sunday before, he’d seen children playing in the parks, boquinistes presiding over their stalls along the river, lovers strolling listlessly along the quays. But now November had arrived, and with it the rains that never seemed to let up for more than an hour or two. Even the native Lyonnais complained, but for Jean, who had grown up amidst the palm trees of southern France, this dark and soggy descent into winter was soul-deadening. Every day, the same gray pavements, the same gray sky: it was like being in purgatory.

As they walked along Cours Gambetta toward the bistro, Jean was only half-listening as Alain complained about the various chefs. They were so petty,so jealous. The Resistance didn’t exist for them, only their own little fiefdoms. It was impossible to work with them.

Jean looked over at Alain whose ears had turned red from the cold. “But without the chefs and their movements, you would have nothing to do,” he said, teasing him gently.

But Alain was in no mood to be placated. “They just won’t keep their promises,” he said as they passed still another display window which was empty except a sign reading Rien à vendre (nothing for sale). “They know very well that you put me in charge of the Délégation,” continued Alain, “but whenever I ask them for something they brush me aside. So far they haven’t helped with anything. Not with personnel, not with safe houses—nothing! I’ve had to find everything myself.”

Jean caught the rising tone of Alain’s voice and gave him a warning look—they were on the street after all—then added somewhat absent-mindedly, “Eh bien, but what can you do?” It wasn’t that he didn’t understand Alain’s frustration, but he’d been working in Lyon for the last six months, long enough to know what the chefs were like. They’d never been brought to heel, not by Jean or anyone else—not in any military sense anyway—and they probably wouldn’t be until the Allies appeared on French soil. But what could either of them do? Just get on with it and hope that in time perhaps . . .                                                    

Just then, though, approaching the Guillotiere bridge, Jean caught sight of an unexpected sentry manning a machine gun—and on his head, a coal-scuttle helmet! So it had happened: the Germans were here! He’d predicted their arrival as soon as he’d heard about the Allied landing in North Africa—when was it?—just last Sunday. That had put Eisenhower’s troops within striking distance of France, so you didn’t have to be a military genius to guess that Hitler would rush in troops of his own. The southern coast of France had to be protected, no matter what arrangement he’d worked out with the Vichy government.

Jean exchanged a quick glance with Alain and the two of them stopped, hearing the rumble of heavy vehicles behind them. Turning, they watched in horror as a caravan of canvas-topped trucks flashed by them, followed moments later by a formation of goose-stepping troops. Marching past in a grayish-green blur, they seemed almost mechanical, a wind-up army whose hobnailed boots swung forward automatically, striking the pavement with such an ear-splitting cadence that the crowds on either side of the street stood there paralyzed. It was almost as if a wizard had waved his wand, immobilizing them.

Jean looked over at Alain—Stay calm—but he could feel tears stinging his own eyes. For two and a half years, the Germans had confined themselves to the upper two-thirds of the country, leaving Marshal Pétain to run what was left of it from his headquarters in Vichy. But now the Boches were grabbing what was left of France. Though Jean had foreseen it, it still came as a shock—a visceral shock, like a kick in the gut—to see Wehrmacht soldiers marching past no more than an arm’s length away, their faces clearly visible beneath the beetle-like brow of their helmets. Unwillingly, his eyes were drawn to a pimply boy with the shadow of a mustache on his upper lip. Not far from him was a thin-faced man with dark baggy eyes, and there, so close Jean could have clapped him on the shoulder, a pug-nosed lad with rosy cheeks and wire-rimmed glasses. It was unnerving, seeing the enemy this way, as individuals, that is—ordinary, commonplace, no different from anyone else—but how could it matter when they’d all sworn allegiance to Hitler?        

When the last row of soldiers had filed past, Alain turned to Jean. “I need to go back to rue Sala, just to check . . .” he whispered, his face stiff and pale. “I may have left my codes out, or my revolver, or—”

Jean nodded. “Yes, go,” he said, waving him away. Alain was being ridiculous. It was unlikely that the Gestapo (who had surely slunk into town ahead of the troops) would be converging on Alain’s room in the middle of the day when they could have come at four in the morning to seize not just his codes, but him too. Still, Jean understood the boy’s panic.

The Vichy police had been a nuisance, but now, with the SD on the scene, their difficulties would be multiplied: the city clogged with checkpoints, rendezvous even riskier, voitures gonio trolling the streets in plain sight. Jean had seen these trucks in Paris. On the outside, they looked like delivery vans, but inside they carried equipment that could pick up even the faintest of radio signals.

Little by little, the crowd around Jean started to melt away. Women hurried off with their string bags to queue in whatever line looked promising. Workmen wearing coveralls scrambled back into manholes or quickly picked up their tools and disappeared. Teenagers, out on the streets during their lunch hour, scurried back to their lycées. But Jean continued to stand there. His day had started with a decoration from de Gaulle and seldom-seen pastries, but the delight of that moment had dissipated. Thinking it over, he wasn’t even sure what the decoration represented. He was a Companion of the Liberation, but so what? Would that make his job any easier?Would his rivals suddenly start taking orders from him? Would l’Armée secrète  finally coalesce into a fighting force that might actually help, rather than hinder, the Allies? No, not likely. 

For all he knew, the medal might not be an honor at all. Perhaps, in awarding it, de Gaulle was merely being strategic. He knew what Jean was up against, so perhaps he was merely trying to strengthen Jean’s hand, to give him a bit of extra leverage. But the chefs were a rowdy group. De Gaulle might have chosen Jean as his personal surrogate, his man on the ground, but did they care? No. Coordination was a dirty word as far as they were concerned. There were a few exceptions, of course—Lévy for instance—but Jean still spent the better part of his time embroiled in their squabbles, from the monarchist Frenay on the right to the haughty d’Astier de la Vigerie on the left, with God knows how many stops in between. Trying to bring these disparate groups together was like trying to conduct an orchestra when everyone was playing a different piece of music.  

A sudden spattering of raindrops made Jean look up at the sky, which had turned an ominous shade of grayish-green. Yes, he thought, as the rain hit the brim of his hat, this is what I am in for, a long dull season of lowering skies and sodden feet.

He turned up the collar of his battered overcoat and plunged his hands deep into its pockets, wondering how far off spring was and whether or not he’d be alive to see it.         

© Roberta Hartling Gates, all rights reserved