“To each his own,” Anton replies, believing me because it’s easier to do so. I feel no guilt about my lies or being unfaithful. My love for Anton is not affected by who else I spread my legs for, and besides, the Resistance needs the information only the general can provide.
I let Anton recover for another ten minutes before I hoist him on my back and take off at a faster clip. This time I move so quickly I’m not visible to anyone patrolling the streets. They feel a brush of air, perhaps sense the heat of my breath, nothing more. My goal is a small apartment not far from Pont Royal and the Seine River, the home of Harrah and Ralph Levine.
Later, I stand holding Anton upright and knock softly on their door. By this time light has begun to glow in the east, and the birds are singing as the stars fade. Wars come and go, but Mother Nature couldn’t care less about mankind’s foolishness.
Harrah is quick to answer, her lovable face bursting into relief at the sight of both of us. She is still dressed in her day clothes. She has been up all night, bless her heart, waiting.
“Sita!” she cries. “You did it!”
“Why does she get all the credit?” Anton complains.
“Come, come, inside.” Harrah gestures as I help Anton over the meager threshold. We are fortunate Harrah is, like her husband, a doctor and has a secret store of medicine and surgical equipment in the spare bedroom, where I often stay. Ralph, a highly trained surgeon, comes out of the bathroom in a robe, his eyes sleepy. But he brightens when he sees Anton and helps me stretch him out on my bed. Ralph’s eyes are a warm gray, the same color as his hair, which sticks off the sides of his head like the wings of a bird. Before the war, he often wore a kippa just to cover his bald spot. Now, when he goes out, along with his wife, he’s forced to wear the Star of David on his arm.
Ralph knows of my diagnostic abilities and looks to me before examining Anton. I tell him what I know and he frowns as he pokes his patient’s nose and mouth.
“Your smile is never going to be the same,” Ralph tells him.
“Give me morphine, let me worry about it tomorrow,” Anton pleads. Ralph looks to me for my opinion.
I nod. “They beat him a long time. Let him rest. I’ll stay with him.”
Ralph reaches for a small vial and a fresh syringe. “Good, I’ll sleep easier knowing you’re near. But watch his breathing, wake me if it gets too slow.”
I stand. “I promise. I’ll be back in a few minutes.”
In the kitchen I find Harrah making tea. We sit together at the small table and sip the hot chamomile. She offers me honey, which I love, and sweet shortbread cookies. She made them herself—she loves to bake. I wonder where she got the sugar but don’t ask. Probably a grateful patient.
Prior to the war, they lived only four blocks away, but it was in a lush flat that overlooked the Seine. But the Germans took their place, they took their doctor’s office and its surgical room. Now they work out of a small neighborhood clinic during the day, while treating men and women at night who fight for the Resistance. They seldom get any rest.
Harrah’s brown hair, which was long and curly before the war, has now been cut short and has streaks of gray. Short hair is best, she told me. It makes her less conspicuous to the Gestapo. Not that anything helps with that star on her sleeve, I think.
It’s a thought I keep to myself. Despite our bond, there is much I don’t share with them. Naturally, they have both heard the stories of the camps in the east, the whispered rumors, where Jews go and never return. Yet, for such a pragmatic couple, they don’t want to talk about it. “No, it can’t be,” they tell me. “The Germans are not animals.”
God, how I wish I could ram the facts Straffer tells me down their throats. Tales of terror that haunt even the general. If I could frighten them enough, they might take me up on my offer to relocate them to Spain. But they don’t want to hear. They say they will never leave Paris, not while they are still needed.
What can I do? I’m strong, but long ago I learned the one person I can’t protect a person from is themselves.
“Tell me how you got him out,” Harrah asks, excited. She loves to hear about my exploits against the Nazis. I try to give her a brief rundown but she insists I share every detail. Her face glowing, she claps when I get to the part about the three young men stuffed in their machine-gun nest.
“How did you know they wouldn’t shoot you in the back?” she asks.
“They had good hearts. I could see it.”
She nods. “I told you they are not all bad.”
I stop with my cup to my lips. She is talking to herself again, I know. “They trusted me, even though I threatened them,” I say. “But the Gestapo, the SS, they live in constant fear of their leaders. It drives them mad.”
“More reason to be grateful for Operation Overlord.” Like most French, Harrah has more faith in the Americans than the British, perhaps because the English have already come and gone. I find the attitude unfair but amusing. However, it pains me that she refuses to face the dark side of the invasion.
“Invading the coast will cost the Allies a lot of men,” I say. “But they know there’s no going back. I’ve told you I’ve met Eisenhower and Patton. Incredible leaders. Even if Rommel pulls all his tanks to the west, he won’t be able to keep their armies pinned down. They hit the flatlands ten miles from the coast and they’ll be in Paris in days.”
“Good,” Harrah says.
“In the long run. But when the Allies begin to storm toward Paris, the Germans will step up the pace of their Final Solution. They will begin to round up—”
“Please, Sita, you know I hate that term. It’s just something Straffer told you to impress you. I’ve never heard another German say the same two words in the same sentence.” She pauses. “It doesn’t exist.”
I speak carefully. “Do the Jews they’ve rounded up still exist?”
Harrah stands and goes to the sink, where she pours out her tea before reaching for the pot to fill a fresh cup. She won’t look at me. Staring east, out the window at the growing light, she speaks in a hurt tone.
“Help is finally coming, it’s a good thing. I have faith.”
“So do I,” I say quietly.
She glances my way. “We have Anton back. It’s been a good night. We should be celebrating.”