“Do not think you can frighten us with your empty threats,” he says. “You are in violation of curfew. Your reason for wandering the streets at this time is laughable. If General Straffer really cared for you, he would have made sure you were escorted to your door. I can only assume you are a liar and a secret enemy of the Nazi party. Now turn and walk into that building across the street or else I will shoot you where you stand.”
I smile. “Shoot me.”
The tall man shakes. “Herr Faber, please put down your gun. I have heard talk Straffer is seeing a blond beauty. This must be her. Her papers are in order. If we upset her—”
“Halt den Mund!” the short one screams. Shut up! “I don’t care if she has bewitched the general. There’s something strange about her. Her eyes, they are not normal. I don’t trust her. We must check out her story.”
I nod as the short one speaks. He’s highly perceptive. Few humans can tell I’m not human; I’m impressed to meet one who can. However, his unique insight has made it unlikely he will live to see the dawn.
“Shoot,” I repeat.
The tall man is a mass of nerves. He is close to tears and I feel sorry for him. In two minutes, the lazy night has transformed into a life-and-death situation. He drops his cigarette and accidentally knocks over their bottle of wine, which he left resting on the bench. The sound of the breaking glass echoes in the night like the sound of snapping nerves. The short one is close to pulling the trigger.
“Fräulein,” he warns me as he cocks his weapon.
I take a step closer. The muzzle is inches from my head.
“Shoot,” I say again.
The short man grins bitterly. I realize something else about him right then. He should have been Gestapo. He is a true Nazi, a sociopath. Orders aside, he wants to kill me because he enjoys killing.
“Hündin,” he says, calling me a bitch.
The man squeezes the trigger.
I instantly reach up and turn his aim on his partner.
The roar of the shot, in the silent night, is deafening. The bullet hits the tall man in the chest and ruptures his heart. He’s dead before he hits the ground. The short one stares in shock at the grip I have on his wrist, the pressure I’m applying. The shock changes to desperation as I slowly twist his aim toward his temple.
“Arschloch,” I whisper, calling him an asshole, an instant before I slide my hand over his finger and pull the trigger. The bullet cracks open his skull and a glut of dark blood erupts from his mouth. I leap back to avoid being sprayed.
I run away, fast. There’s no point in trying to hide the bodies. The streets don’t flood with cars searching for me, not that I expect them. Even during the day there are few vehicles on the road. The Nazis have taken away most French driver’s licenses. The hometown crowd is reduced to riding mostly bicycles. Only the Germans are allowed to drive freely, and those who have cars are almost always Gestapo.
Yet I’m several blocks distant from my dastardly deed, when I see three black cars suddenly plunge into the street from behind a garage door. The cars appear at a steep angle, as if rising from the deep, and I realize, by sheer accident, that I have discovered the secret entrance to the Gestapo headquarters.
I wait for the posse of cars to vanish and rush beneath the garage door a second before it closes. I expect to confront a handful of guards but find no one. The doorway must be controlled from a distance. I’m alone in a black tunnel that stretches for far longer than the two blocks Anton’s friend described. However, I’m certain I’m on the right track.
The dark is an old friend and the tunnel is poorly lit. Running silently along the right wall, I eventually come to a claustrophobic underground cavern jammed with a dozen cars, three tanks, and ten jeeps loaded with high-caliber machine guns. I’m staring at riot control center, and yet, like at the entrance, the area is unguarded. I don’t have to stretch my imagination far to realize why.
The Nazis are an arrogant bunch. In their wildest imagination, they can’t conceive that a group of Frenchmen might storm their stronghold. I can’t wait to share my discovery with Anton’s comrades and prove how wrong they are.
Still, Anton remains my priority and I’m relieved, finally, to hear the faint cries of screaming men. The sound is far from pleasant but it tells me my goal is near. Clearly the Gestapo prefer to do their dirty work far underground. I pray they have not reached the point of torture with Anton. He’s only been in custody since this morning, and it’s generally the Gestapo way to first use gentle persuasion to achieve their goals, never mind that they almost always execute their prisoners when they’re done with them.
A single door stands at the far end of the cavern—an unremarkable barrier. Not only is the door made of ordinary wood, it’s not even locked. Again, I’m reminded how arrogant the Nazis are. I enter without making a sound.
The screams are suddenly no longer so faint. I find myself standing in a stark hallway with gray metal for walls, and a ceiling so high the mazes of rooms on my left and right are not nearly tall enough to reach it. I take a moment to understand. The individual rooms do not have ceilings, but are exposed to whoever is watching from beyond the metal-plated ceiling.
A wave of uncertainty strikes me. Even if I identify the compartment where Anton is being held, if I burst in and try to remove him by force I’ll alert the whole compound. True, so far I have not run into anyone but I know the “eye in the sky” never sleeps. Right now, high above, there are probably several people on duty. It’s possible they’re watching me. I have to move fast.
To my left, around the corner of the hallway where I stand, I hear an unexpected sound. A female German telling her superior she has to use the restroom. Whoever she is speaking to chuckles and tells her she is going for a smoke, which she knows is forbidden.
I assume that smoking is taboo because of the poor ventilation. The air I breathe stinks of sweat, blood, and pain. Also, it’s probable that if the whole Nazi gang smoked while on duty, the stink would reach the streets and alert the French men and woman who innocently stroll past the old elementary school. German culture is a mass of rules—they’re a rigid species—but most exist for a reason.
I want the woman, I want her uniform. If I can get to her before the spies above spot me, I should be able to move around freely, if only for a few minutes. Hurrying to the corner, letting my nose be my guide, I pick up a faint smell of urine and feces coming from a nondescript door. Of course the Germans wouldn’t have a separate restroom for the ladies. For all I know, the woman I heard is the only female in the compound. I hope that’s not the case—it would make my disguise that much less effective.