Chapter Five

Chapter Five

“Smile,” Max hissed in Genevieve’s ear as they walked in the door. The servant who’d admitted them had turned away to open the door to someone else, so they were essentially alone in the entry hall. “You’re one of them, remember. Part of the elite group. That’s how we get this done.”

By them, he was referring to the collaborators, those with whom the Germans socialized, who cozied up to them, who were living high off their association with them while the rest of the country, the rest of Europe, suffered. In other words, including the Germans themselves, who were even worse, practically everyone at the party.

“I am smiling.”

“You look like you sucked on a lemon.”

“I told you I don’t feel well. It’s the best I can do.”

“Try harder.”

Drawing back her lips, she bared her teeth in an enormous grin. Just to show him.

“There you go. Beauty personified.” He chucked her under her chin, which he knew full well would annoy her. Then he left her to see to the safe disposal of their coats. She scowled after him before turning to brave the party on her own. As she was greeted by their host, the Spanish consul, General Eduardo Castellano, and his wife, Sophie, and drawn into the small group of guests nearest the foyer, Genevieve managed to put the true purpose of her presence out of her head. Despite a headache that beat like a drum against her temples, she summoned up a dazzling smile that she hoped looked more genuine than it felt and set herself to being charming.

“We were enchanted by your wonderful performance. My wife was in tears, I give you my word!”

“Where did you train, my dear? Such an extraordinary voice!”

“Can you believe this weather? So cold this week, and now this terrible rain!”

“After Paris, where does your tour take you? Will you leave France?”

“If she is lucky, it will be someplace warmer.”

Feeling like her smile was growing more rigid by the minute, Genevieve circulated, exchanged air-kisses, answered questions, made small talk and held on as if for dear life to the smooth, hard stem of the champagne flute someone had thoughtfully provided her with a few minutes before. The possible effects of overindulgence she’d experienced earlier had faded, leaving her feeling as sober as a park bench. Which was good, because the only way she was going to make it through the rest of this night was with the help of liquid fortification.

She glanced around for Max and failed to find him. Whatever he was doing—and she doubted it was limited to supervising the bestowal of their coats—was taking him far too long. Tonight of all nights she needed him with her to parry the questions, to deflect the curious stares, to stand between her and the effusive interest bombarding her on all sides. The glittering star persona she assumed for such gatherings was firmly in place, but inside she was a quivering mess. Not because of Anna, or what had happened the previous night or even the danger of this job he had coerced her into, or at least not primarily because of those things. There was still an hour remaining in what was for her this most dreaded of days: May 16, the date of one little girl’s birth, and another little girl’s death.

She would dearly love to be able to blot both events from her consciousness, but she was beginning to think that no matter what she did, forgetting was never going to be possible. On this of all days, the past would not leave her alone. Her wound was buried deep, but it was still there, still raw and painful. Holding Anna in her arms had been the equivalent of rubbing salt in it. The only thing that made her grief even remotely bearable was that no one who was in her life now knew anything about it, so there was no one to note the significance of the day, no one to mark it or remind her. The memories, and the pain, were hers alone.

Just a little longer, and she would be through it.

“Mademoiselle Dumont, I was fortunate enough to hear you sing at Neue Burg in Vienna last summer.”

“He cherishes the photograph he took with you there, showing it to all of us whenever he wants to feel superior.”

The German officers in front of her were large, blond and bucolic, very polite, as were all the invaders: the Wehrmacht had been ordered to treat the French with dignity to avoid arousing the hatred of the populace. Even now that the war was going less well for them, with North Africa fallen to the Allies, Sicily conquered, the Russians routing the Germans on the eastern front, massive bombing raids on German cities and whispers of a looming Allied invasion of France being bandied about everywhere, their good manners did not fail.

The second officer was laughing at the first, who reddened. Genevieve laughed, too, said something along the lines of Vienna is so beautiful, one of my favorite cities, and moved on. The truth was she remembered that night well. At Max’s instigation, she’d had her picture taken with dozens of concertgoers. There’d been a reason: a prominent scientist and his family on the run from the Nazis had been hidden among the crowd, and the photos taken of them that night had been used to forge travel documents that had allowed them to make their way out of the country to safety disguised as part of her troupe’s entourage.

“Traveling as you do sounds so exciting! Tell me, what is it like being on tour?”

“I heard you over the radio earlier today. The song you sang—so lovely—and then to know that I would see you perform it in person tonight—”

Being on tour is terrifying, because we’re often risking death by smuggling someone or something across some border or another. And that lovely song I sang over the radio today? It was a signal to an agent.

But of course she couldn’t say that. Instead she murmured platitudes and smiled. What people saw when they looked at her was Genevieve Dumont, the singer, the star. That’s what they wanted to see, what they expected to see. They thought they knew all about her, about her success, her happiness, her life that seemed charmed in this time of madness. But the face she showed the world was not who she was inside.

She excused herself and continued through the room. The Spanish embassy was a large mansion constructed of smooth, pale stone. Protected by a black iron fence and large gates, it stood on the right bank of the Seine in the eighth arrondissement. For the occasion of tonight’s party, it was guarded by a contingent of tightly wound German soldiers who had searched everyone as they entered, with only a handful of exceptions. They were on edge because Paris was experiencing more unrest than usual. On April 1, the Waffen-SS had massacred 86 innocent civilians in Ascq in retaliation for the explosion that had derailed a train carrying the Twelfth SS Panzer Division Hitlerjugend. Resistance activity had heightened as a result. The cross of Lorraine, that symbol of the Resistance, was appearing everywhere, painted on the sides of buildings, carved into train trestles, erected and set ablaze in the center courtyard of the Sorbonne. A little over three weeks ago, an Allied bombardment had killed over 670 people in porte de la Chapelle in the eighteenth arrondissement. Last week an explosive had been hurled into a Montmartre restaurant packed with German soldiers, killing a number of them. The 5:00 p.m. curfew imposed on the city as a result had just been reextended until the more usual 9:00 p.m. After that hour, the whole of Paris went dark, and from the outside at least, the embassy was no exception, party or no.

Once the lights were out, the sound of jackboots on pavement sent whole blocks into hiding, in cellars and closets and under beds. Like the one she had witnessed the previous night, most raids occurred during the curfew hours of 9:00 p.m. to 5:00 a.m. Anyone caught outdoors without a pass during those hours was subject to arrest. Citizens who had business outside their homes after curfew scurried through the streets like rats, heads down, intent on their destinations, hoping to avoid the patrols that had the power to stop anyone at any time and demand to see their papers. And if those papers were found to be not in order, or if for any reason suspicion was aroused, the patrols arrested as they pleased. People went out and never came back.

Because of her fame, Genevieve had a pass that exempted her from being searched—she was one of the handful who had been permitted to enter the embassy unmolested—which was why Max had insisted she come tonight despite her continued (perfectly true) protests that she was feeling unwell. In her evening bag was information to be passed on to his contact in the embassy and from there carried out of France. Its mere presence on her person was enough to keep her heart knocking in her chest and her stomach in a permanent knot. It was also enough to get her killed: the Nazis were ruthless in dealing with anyone who dared oppose them, and in this atmosphere of heightened tension, they would be merciless even, she feared, to one such as her.

“Everyone who has seen it praises your show to the skies,” a gentleman stopped her to say. “Alas, it is sold out! Who do I have to know to obtain tickets?”

“Jacques, do not pester Mademoiselle Dumont,” his wife beside him said. “Do you think she carries extra tickets in her bag?”

In involuntary reflex, Genevieve’s hand went to the bag in question, clutching it close to her side, excruciatingly aware of what was tucked inside the beaded satin pouch that hung from her shoulder by a delicate silver chain.

Realizing the telltale nature of what she had done, she smiled, sipped from her glass to combat the sudden dryness of her mouth, and dropped her hand. After a few more words exchanged, she walked away, only to be intercepted by two other people.

“My dear, your dress is simply exquisite!”

“You must tell us—is it a Lanvin?”

Her long gown of slinky, clinging silver lamé was indeed by Jeanne Lanvin, who was one of the few couturiers still working in Paris. It was cleverly slit up the front to reveal one leg, but only when she moved. Dangling diamond earrings sparkled against the loose, cascading black waves that tumbled around her shoulders. Her lipstick was crimson, her high heels silver. In the process of becoming Genevieve Dumont, the star, she had become adept at transforming her rather ordinary prettiness into a dazzling facade as required. Tonight she looked, as her dresser Berthe, who had helped her change from her stage costume into this evening ensemble, had told her, “like a million Reichsmarks. I would have said francs, but we all know those aren’t worth anything anymore.”

Although no lights were visible from the outside due to the tightly drawn blackout curtains, inside the mansion the party was shifting into high gear. Music, laughter and much animated conversation filled the air as the Spaniards played hosts to more than a hundred favored Parisians along with a smattering of guests of other nationalities and a full complement of high-ranking Germans, all of whom seemed anxious to meet her.

Beautiful furnishings, rich carpets and valuable paintings formed a lavish backdrop for bejeweled ladies in evening gowns and gentlemen in tuxedos or military uniforms. But the real luxuries were the heated rooms and the abundance of food and drink, all of which were in desperately short supply in Paris, and indeed throughout France and the rest of Occupied Europe. Spain was officially neutral but had demonstrated a marked partiality for the Axis powers. Its calculated flirtation with the Nazis had not only kept it from being invaded but had resulted in its being able to obtain items completely unavailable to anyone except the Germans themselves.

Such as, for example, the ingredients used to create the small but succulent curl of meat-stuffed pastry on the tray of canapés currently being offered to her by a bowing waiter. Paris seemed to be one of the few places on earth that still had plenty of food—and such food!—although only for the Germans and their hangers-on. Which now, to all outward appearances at least, included her. The canapé was mouth-wateringly alluring, and if she didn’t eat it, someone else at the party would. Genevieve popped it into her mouth, guilt pangs about the deprivations being suffered by her less fortunate fellow citizens notwithstanding. She needed to eat if she was going to drink, and for the next hour or so she was definitely going to drink.

“Mademoiselle, would you care for more champagne?”

“Thank you, yes.” Genevieve accepted another waiter’s offer with a wag of her empty glass and replaced it with one that was not.

Laughing gaily at some witticism uttered by a prosperous-looking Belgian that she didn’t even entirely hear, she moved on only to be pulled into conversation with a knot of admirers that included several more Wehrmacht officers. She nodded and smiled, replied as necessary, and sipped her champagne, enjoying the smooth, cool slide of it over her tongue and the way the tiny bubbles in the golden liquid glistened as the light passed through it. Her talent as an actress was not even in the same galaxy as her talent as a singer, but now she was operating mostly on autopilot, which made things easier. The party, the other guests, the soldiers were starting to go a little fuzzy around the edges. The feeling of disassociation from her surroundings she was experiencing was actually good. It was easing the worst of her nerves. Her heart rate was almost normal now, and the knot in her stomach had loosened. The party, which she had dreaded as she did all such fraught-with-peril events, was starting to seem not so terrible after all.

“Mademoiselle Dumont.” Someone touched her elbow. “If I may be so bold—I was told that you would be willing to honor our small gathering with a song? I would not presume to bother you, but as you know, it is the anniversary of the marriage of our consul general and his wife.”

Genevieve knew who he was: the Spanish press attaché, Bernardo Santaella, a small, dapper man with brilliantined black hair and a swooping mustache. She suspected that he was Max’s contact in the embassy, but not only did she not know for certain, she didn’t want to know for certain. In ignorance lay some small measure of safety. Or at least so she told herself.

“Yes, of course. The honor is mine. I’ve even brought a song with me especially for the occasion.” Responding as instructed by Max, Genevieve drank rather than sipped at her champagne as she followed Santaella through two arched doorways and across meters of polished marble toward the grand piano. Gleaming black, with a closed lid, the magnificent Steinway was situated sideways before a large, heavily curtained bow window at the far end of the most imposing of the crowded reception rooms. Above it a chandelier glittered and gleamed.

Smiling in response to the stream of compliments and comments directed her way by those she passed, she did her best to focus on the performance and nothing more. Before Max—where was he?—she had never considered herself to be of a particularly fearful disposition, but despite the deadening effects of the champagne, knowing the true purpose of what she was about to do made her hands sweat.

Which was not so good for someone who was getting ready to accompany herself on the piano as she sang.

“Can I get you anything, Mademoiselle Dumont?” Santaella pulled out the piano bench for her and bowed. A detachable microphone was affixed to the fallboard, and a selection of bound sheet music waited on the music desk. It was clear that the piano was regularly used to entertain the embassy’s guests. He nodded at her nearly empty glass. “More champagne?”

“Yes.” Smoothing her skirt beneath her as she sat down, she sipped at the fresh champagne that a waiter brought at Santaella’s gesture, then placed the tulip-shaped glass on the piano’s satin-smooth lid. “Thanks.”

As Santaella bowed and moved away, she pulled her bag into her lap. Snapping open the clasp, she fumbled to extract the folded booklet of sheet music she’d brought with her. It held, among others, the song she’d been asked to perform. Since her arrival at the party, she’d been on tenterhooks waiting for this moment. Now that it was here, she tried without success to ignore the butterflies taking flight in her stomach.

Folded, the booklet of perhaps a dozen songs was several centimeters thick. She managed to get it out, unfolded it so that the title—Enter Springtime—was uppermost and propped it on the music desk. A prolonged, exuberant finish from the roving accordion players who’d beguiled partygoers for the past quarter hour crescendoed to a triumphant flourish as she flexed her fingers, stretched them silently over the keys, made herself ready. A semicircular arrangement of chairs was being placed for special guests around the side of the piano that faced the room.

Santaella was over near the chairs now, conferring with another member of the embassy’s staff. He would be announcing her at any minute, she knew.

You have only to sing and play, and it’s over. You can go back to the hotel and go to bed.

Conscious of how tense she was, she relaxed her shoulders, her arms, her wrists, her fingers.

“Mademoiselle Dumont, well met!” The male voice with its guttural German accent was accompanied by a heavy hand dropping onto her shoulder. She barely managed not to jump, glanced around to see who would approach her at such a moment and found herself looking up into a clean-shaven face with squinty blue eyes, a fleshy nose and a thin-lipped mouth above a jutting chin. The gray-green SS officer’s uniform he wore had gorget patches of pips and oak leaves and glittering hardware that indicated his high rank. The swastika pinned to his tie glittered in the light. Fortyish; short fair hair shiny with hair tonic, worn in a slicked-back, middle-parted style; stocky build. Not unhandsome but—chilling. It was, she thought, something to do with his eyes.

Her heart lurched: they hadn’t met, but she knew who he was.

A smile cracked his face, stretched his mouth until she saw that he had twin dimples in his cheeks.

He beamed down at her. “I was hoping to encounter you here! If you will permit me to introduce myself, I am Obergruppenführer Claus von Wagner. I have greatly enjoyed your performances, as I hope you have enjoyed my small tributes to them?”

He meant the huge bunches of flowers he’d had carried up to her during every one of the last week’s curtain calls. Genevieve did her best to arrange her face into an expression as close to delight as she could contrive.

“Herr Obergruppenführer of the beautiful flowers.” She shifted on the bench so that she could more easily look up at him. “I have so enjoyed them. Their perfume has filled my dressing room for days. Thank you for your kindness in sending them.”

“Not at all. It has been my pleasure. I understand that you will be honoring us with a private performance tonight. What song have you chosen? I hope I may have the privilege of turning the pages for you as you play?” He reached past her to pick up the booklet of songs she’d just placed on the music desk. His expression indicated that he had no doubt about her agreement.

Genevieve’s smile froze in place as he began to casually flip through the pages. Her heart thumped. Her stomach turned inside out.

Besides the usual musical notations, each page of the booklet he was thumbing through was scribbled over with information on German troop, ship and munition movements, ship and rail cargoes and their routes, and other material intended to aid the Allied forces in targeting their attacks. She was to leave it behind when she finished; it would be picked up and passed on. The fact that the information was written in invisible ink and could not be seen until exposed to direct heat or some other reconstituting agent did nothing to ease her burgeoning panic.

Especially as he trailed his fingers—his warm fingers—down the page he was looking at. Even beyond the degree of heat given off by his hands, was it possible that he might be able to feel the hidden writing? Could a telltale roughness be there on the paper?

Anxiety squeezed her chest.

Her gaze was riveted on the booklet in his hand, she realized, and she jerked it up to his face just as he glanced at her questioningly.

He was waiting for her to reply.

What could she do? What could she say? To deny him might raise suspicion. Alternatively, if he discovered the secret writing...

Cold sweat broke out across the back of her neck.

There was no help for it. She was going to have to say that she preferred to turn the pages herself and get it away from him.

Around the sudden tightness in her throat—not good for a singer—she began, “Herr Obergruppenführer...”

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