Something Krishna once said comes back to me.
“Pain is pain, death’s dearest friend. The reason no man lives without fear.”
How true, I think. And how sad that the reverse—“There’s no death without life, no pain without birth.”—is also true. It does not matter to me that my creator, Yaksha, a demon by birth, said the latter. To me he was agreeing with Krishna. After more than five thousand years a part of me still fears to suffer.
How much better it is to seek revenge.
I knock and step through the door before hearing an answer.
A Gestapo man, his coat off, his shirtsleeves rolled up, stands over Anton, who is chained to a chair that’s bolted to the floor. My lover has been stripped naked. Blisters cover his chest, the result of cigarettes extinguished in his flesh. Red welts connect the hideous dots. I need only glance at the car battery on a nearby desk to know their source. An old Nazi favorite—sprinkle the prisoner with water and shock him until he answers, or else faints, whatever comes first. Never mind the blood smeared over Anton’s body from a broken nose and twenty missing nails. His tormentor has been most thorough; he has not left a finger or toe untouched.
The Gestapo sees my rank and leaps to attention. “Lieutenant!”
I look down at Anton, who stares up and winces. He’s afraid he’s hallucinating. He cannot believe I have come to his rescue, although he, too, knows who I am. In a moment of weakness I told him my secret to keep him faithful. Usually, I’m extraordinarily casual when it comes to sex. But something about Anton makes me jealous of other women. When it comes to love, obviously, the years have taught me nothing.
“What have you learned from the prisoner?” I snap.
The Gestapo grins, his dark mustache dripping sweat. He’s no Hitler, he’s too big and strong, but he gives off the same stink.
“A great deal. He’s been most cooperative.” He pauses. “But I was told to report my findings to Captain Blanch.”
“I’m here on behalf of the captain. Answer my question.”
The man gestures to Anton as if he were an object. “We may have struck gold, if what he says is true. As you know, we have learned from other sources that he’s important to the Resistance. He may even be one of their leaders. None of this is a surprise. What matters are his connections.” He pauses. “I’m convinced he’s in direct contact with the British.”
“You haven’t had him long. What makes you so sure?”
The Nazi’s smile widens. “A place he mumbles when he passes out. A name. A date.”
“Please, you try my patience. Make your point.”
The man stiffens, a flicker of anger passing over his eyes. He hides it quickly. It’s clear he wants credit for what he has leached out of Anton.
“Pas de Calais. Operation Overlord. June eighth.”
I shake my head as if I’m not impressed, but inside I’m relieved. It’s true Anton has revealed the code name; however, he might have done so on purpose. A little truth takes the bitterness from the lies. Despite all he has suffered, Anton has told them exactly what the British would want the Nazis to hear—the wrong location of the invasion. He’s also blurted out a false date, although the insanely unpredictable Channel weather might make it correct. No matter, Anton has planted an important false seed.
“Well?” the Nazi says when I don’t answer.
“Nothing,” I reply, before lashing out with my right hand and striking his left temple. He falls hard to the floor, where he lies unmoving, but he’s still alive. Anton blinks as if he’s finally waking up.
“Kill him,” he says softly in French.
Kissing the top of his head, I kneel beside Anton. I break his wrist and ankle shackles. “No, he lives. We want him to carry your message to his superiors,” I say.
Anton’s hands are suddenly free and he grabs my hand. “If you kill me and manage to get out of here alive, the message will carry more weight. That will prove to them that what I knew was dangerous.”
“The hell with that. You have done enough for God and country.”
Anton frowns. “Please, Sita, that’s a British saying. Haven’t I been tortured enough?”
Leaning forward, I kiss his lips, tasting his blood. Half his teeth are loose. Most will fall out in the next few days or weeks, if he should get out of here alive.
“You deserve everything they did to you for going to that same café day after day. You must be insane.”
A man screams next door and Anton gestures in my direction. “Look who’s talking. You might be old but you can still be killed. You should have let me be. There’s no way you can get out of here alive, not with me dragging you down.”
“Then you had better get to your feet,” I say, pulling him up. But he’s weaker than I feared and I have to hold him steady. “Quick, take this towel, clean up as best you can. You have to change into the Nazi’s uniform.”
Anton scowls at the unconscious Gestapo. “It will never work. He’s twice my size.”
I grab Anton by his chin and gaze into his eyes. “We leave here together or we don’t leave here at all. I mean it. Pull yourself together.”
He nods but sways in my arms. He gestures for me to let him sit back down and I let him slip through my arms. He groans in pain as his bare ass hits the seat. At least he takes the towel and begins to wipe his bloody skin.
“I need a minute,” he says.
I fear to linger but he’s right, he needs time. His ribs are swelling a ghastly blue where he’s been repeatedly punched. He might have internal bleeding. Kneeling beside the fallen Gestapo, I begin to undress the man.
“I’ll have this uniform off in a minute,” I say, my tone encouraging. “Then, while you’re dressing, I’ll scout out this floor, maybe the floors above. We’re pretty far underground.”
“You don’t know the way out?” he mumbles.
“I don’t want to go out the way I came in. The last thing anyone will expect is for us to escape through the front door.”
Anton dabs at his bloody nose. “Where are we anyway?”
“Beneath an elementary school at Vigne and Arago.”
Anton sighs. “That is where I went to grade school.”
Two minutes later I leave Anton and creep back into the hallway and head for a nearby flight of stairs. I go up eight flights before I taste fresh air and know I’m at street level. Fortunately, the stairway is not occupied. The Germans appear to stick to their designated floors while on duty.