I try the door, gently, but it’s locked. The woman must have wanted privacy. I snap the lock, also gently; it makes a dull, grinding noise. I’m inside in an instant and am grateful to see the restroom, at least, has a ceiling. Three urinals stand on my right, three stalls are on my left. The woman is in the last stall, against the wall, sitting on a toilet with her long skirt intact.
Her boss knows her well; she has come to smoke.
Nazis love to wear black, to instill dread into their enemies, although they occasionally dress their attire up with red and white, like the Nazi flag. However, when they’re stationed in occupied territories, the Gestapo usually have on gray-green SS uniforms. Their choice of colors is shrewd. The SS and Gestapo are equally hated, and their uniforms make them impossible to mistake for civilians.
The woman sings softly as she smokes, a French song about a lost lover. I recognize it from the radio and am surprised how pretty her voice is. It’s possible at home she’s a professional performer. Not that I care. She’s not going to leave the restroom alive.
I come at her like a spider dropping from the sky, using the adjoining stall to climb up and over into her cubicle. Her cigarette falls from her dry lips and she tries to cry out, but my palm closes over her mouth as I crouch by her side, my own lips inches from her bulging eyes. I speak in whispered German.
“Please, Fräulein, do not to be afraid. I know I have taken you by surprise and I know it is hard to comprehend my strength. My grip feels like a vise, does it not? Don’t worry, you are not imagining it. I’m stronger than a dozen men put together. I was born that way, and I can break your neck in an instant if you refuse to cooperate. Do you understand?”
The woman nods frantically. Fortunately, she’s about my size—her uniform should fit. Her hair is short, dark, her eyes brown and teary. Veins pop through the whites. One bursts from the intensity of my stare. Let her feel my fire, I think.
She’s a Gestapo officer, in her mid-twenties. On the collar of her coat she wears the rank of lieutenant, which leads me to believe she’s witnessed her fair share of torturous interrogations and probably conducted a few. Even though there’s terror in her eyes, there’s also a deep coldness.
For me, the true mark of the Nazi secret police is their extraordinary lack of empathy. I have met many cruel people in my five thousand years, but I have never met an entire organization that is so consistently evil.
“This morning the Gestapo took a friend of mine into custody,” I say. “He was sitting in a café near the Louvre when he was arrested. I suspect he was eating a cheese sandwich on a roll and drinking coffee. This man is a good friend. His name is Anton Petit. Have you heard of him?”
She hesitates, then shakes her head. She is lying.
I smile. “I know he’s here. Let me describe him to you. He’s tall and thin but strong. He walks like a puppet, like he might fall at any second, but he’s fast in a pinch. His hair is black, like his eyes. He’s handsome, if you saw him you wouldn’t forget.” I stop and tighten my grip. Another vein in the whites of her eyes pops and the red spreads over her anxious gaze. I add, “Nod if you intend to tell me where you’re holding him.”
She struggles to breathe through her nose. The passageway appears slightly clogged; nevertheless, she is hyperventilating and might pass out if she doesn’t stop. I pinch her nose shut and speak in her ear.
“I need to know what you know. I’ll kill you if you don’t talk.”
She struggles in my arms for a few seconds, then stops. Her eyes stare at me, pleading. She blinks rapidly as if trying to say yes. I release her nose.
“Good,” I say. “Now I’m going to take my hand off your mouth. But I warn you, if you cry out you’ll die. Be very certain of this. Don’t forget how strong I am. How easy it will be for me to shatter every bone in your neck. Do you understand?”
The woman nods and I remove my hand. She is a mass of nerves. Hanging her head, she immediately breaks into a fit of coughing, and I pat her back helpfully, encouraging her to take deep breaths. It takes her two minutes before she’s ready to speak. By then her lit cigarette has filled the stall with smoke and I crush it with my boot.
“Who are you?” she gasps.
“My name is unimportant. My friend Anton is. Tell me, now, is he on this floor? And don’t lie to me. I’m as sensitive as I am strong.”
Her eyes turn up, as if searching for help, then wander in the direction of the restroom door. Quickly, too fast for her to see, I pinch the flesh of her chin, bringing a smear of blood. I shush her when she goes to cry out.
“Start talking,” I say.
She swallows thickly. “If I tell you what you want to know, will you promise to let me live?”
“How many dying Frenchmen have you made that promise to?”
She shakes her head. “I don’t do such things. I work in an office with a typewriter. I keep records, I do what I’m told. I never wanted to join the party.”
“Why did you?” I ask.
“The war came, I wasn’t given a choice. It was either join or become an outcast.”
“You didn’t have to join the Gestapo to serve your homeland. I live here in Paris, I have seen many of your kind. Yet few are women. You’re young for an officer. And officers don’t spend their time in an office typing. You must be good at what you do, a bright young woman like you. You must know everything that goes on here.” I pause. “Last chance. Tell me what I want to know or die.”
She goes to speak, then glances at my hands, the sleek beautiful hands that have no right to be so strong. Her fear seems to crystallize; it appears to give her clarity. Suddenly she understands how close she is to death.
“He is here,” she says. “Room six-H.”
“I saw a number of rooms coming here. None were labeled. Where is room six-H?”
She stammers. “When I said he’s here, I meant he’s in the building, one floor up. There are stairs at either end of the hallway. Both lead to his floor. The rooms are clearly marked.” She adds, “I can take you there if you wish.”
Finally, she’s telling the truth.
“Does six-H have an open ceiling like the rooms outside?”
“No, only scum . . . I mean, the Jews are interrogated down here. People we consider important, they are taken upstairs.”