Chapter Forty

Chapter Forty

The train ride from Paris to Stuttgart took more than ten hours. That was longer than usual, because the engineer was constantly having to stop as debris from a series of recent Allied bombings was cleared from the tracks before they could go on. There was, in addition, the wait at the border when every passenger was questioned and their papers were exhaustively examined. By the time they were once again chugging through the tall mountains and breathtaking forests of Germany, the atmosphere on the train was oppressive. Heavily armed soldiers patrolled the cars throughout the journey, checking papers, searching rucksacks and suitcases, calling out unfortunate passengers to answer a series of questions about their reason for traveling and for more thorough searches of their persons.

They were a group of five: Genevieve, Max, Emmy, Berthe and Otto. Berthe was the one Genevieve was most worried about, but she’d refused point-blank to be parted from Genevieve, and Max had allowed her to come. The rest of the troupe had been sent on to Spain, where, officially, they would all meet up in four days. Unofficially, after this upcoming performance in Stuttgart, the plan was for a couple of Lysanders to land and whisk them all, including the hopefully newly rescued Lillian, out of Germany. Max and Otto would be dropped off in France, and Genevieve and the others would fly on to England and safety.

That meant she and Max had even less time than she’d thought: two days. Every time she looked at him, her heart shivered at the thought of parting. What made it more difficult was that, in front of the others at least, they had to do their best to behave as if nothing in their relationship had changed. As Max said, the mission was too important to allow for distractions.

In his telephone call, Wagner had asked Genevieve to come to Stuttgart to give a private concert for an unspecified “special event” three days hence. Without being more specific than that, he couched it as being much like the private concert she’d given at the Spanish embassy where they’d first met, although if it was at all possible (he’d said with a chuckle), he’d like her to sing more than two songs. He would, he concluded, consider her acceptance a personal favor.

Even if she had not badly needed to go to Stuttgart for reasons of her own, refusing such a request would have been nearly impossible. With Germany in cruel ascendancy, Wagner was a dangerous man to offend, or to make an enemy of.

“I’m very much looking forward to seeing you again, Genevieve” was how Wagner had ended the phone call, his voice warmly caressing. “I’ll be counting the hours.”

“I’m looking forward to seeing you, too, Claus,” Genevieve had replied, sweet as honey. She hadn’t missed the troubled look on Max’s face as he’d stood beside her, listening. In every moment of repose since—backstage at her last Paris show, at the studio later where they’d spent the (unforgettable) night together, at the Ritz the following morning (where Berthe had said nothing at all about Genevieve’s absence the previous two nights, thus earning her undying gratitude), and then later on the train—he’d been looking positively grim.

By traveling to Stuttgart, they were, as he’d said, going into the belly of the beast. But the mission was so vital that there was no turning away from it.

She learned from Emmy, because of course Max remained as tight-lipped as ever, that Helian had been picked up by the Resistance, identified as the traitor, and executed. She couldn’t rejoice in the killing of anyone, but she did feel a rush of cold satisfaction at the knowledge that justice had been administered.

Before leaving Paris, Genevieve had managed to get away for a private errand of her own. She’d sneaked off to the place de la Bastille to check on Anna. The same nameless woman had answered the door. She frowned at Genevieve, clearly remembering her from before, but did not invite her in.

“I’ve come to see Anna,” Genevieve said, but got no further before the woman shook her head.

“She is not here any longer. She is with the Sisters in Vère.” The woman started to close the door.

“Wait. Here.” Having gathered up all the cash she could scrape together without alerting Max or anyone else to what she meant to do, Genevieve had put it in an envelope with the intention of giving it to Anna’s caretakers. Pulling it out of Berthe’s shopping bag, she thrust the envelope at the woman, who paused in the act of closing the door to take it.

“It’s money. For the children,” Genevieve said.

The woman took the envelope and looked at it, then at her with the first flicker of vulnerability Genevieve had seen from her.

“Thank you,” the woman said, then, “Bless you,” and closed the door. Sending prayers winging skyward for Anna’s safety and well-being, and indeed for the safety and well-being of all the children, Genevieve made it back to the hotel with no one the wiser and in time to change and leave to meet Emmy.

It was after 9:00 p.m. when they reached Stuttgart. To Genevieve’s relief, Wagner wasn’t there to greet them. They were met and whisked through the station by Lutz, Wagner’s cherub-faced driver. She and Max were ushered into the back seat of the Daimler that Lutz was driving, while Emmy, Berthe and Otto followed in a second car with another driver. Herr Obergruppenführer Wagner, was, Lutz explained as the Daimler rolled through the darkened streets of the heavily industrialized city, unavoidably detained by business that evening. He would, however, meet Mademoiselle Dumont the next day upon her arrival at Eber Schloss.

“Eber Schloss?” Genevieve asked as she looked out the window at the wide streets and classical architecture of the city, dark now because of the danger of Allied air raids. Even by uncertain moonlight she was able to see gaps like missing teeth in the neat rows of buildings, and the ragged skyline where bombs had left behind broken steeples and partly destroyed chimneys and roofs.

“Up there.” Lutz pointed.

Peering out through the glass, Genevieve looked up in the direction he indicated. In the distance, visible only because it was, at that moment, silhouetted by the moon that had just come out from behind a blanket of heavy clouds, the slender turrets and crenellated ramparts of a Gothic castle were visible, perched high atop a snowcapped mountain that towered above the town.

“How beautiful,” Genevieve said, while Max looked silently out at the mountain. “Will we be staying there?”

“I regret, not tonight, no.” Lutz turned a corner and the schloss was lost from sight. “The visitors at Eber Schloss are very important and security is extremely tight. While they are with us, no one is permitted to go up or down the mountain after dark. Even I must stay in town tonight. Herr Obergruppenführer Wagner has arranged that you will stay tomorrow night at the schloss, after you sing for him and his guests.”

“The schloss is where I’ll be singing?”

“Yes.”

“If I’m not mistaken, Eber Schloss is Herr Obergruppenführer’s family home, is it not?” Max asked. As Lutz agreed that it was, Genevieve glanced at Max in surprise: she hadn’t known that.

“I look forward to seeing it tomorrow night,” Genevieve said.

“You will find it most impressive,” Lutz promised.

The Daimler pulled in to the forecourt of a building identified by a sign above its massive front doors as Der Rote Fuchs. A Gasthaus, it was a large, sprawling half-timbered structure that, from the outside, was as dark and deserted as the rest of the city.

“Herr Obergruppenführer Wagner apologizes for the accommodations, but the Palast Hotel, where he would have had you stay, was damaged in a raid last month. This place is less conspicuous, and thus less likely to attract bombs. We hope.” Lutz said that with a slight smile and a kind of gallows humor that reminded Genevieve of how young he actually was. “If it should prove less than satisfactory, you have only to let me know.”

He went in with them to make certain all was as it should be, but he needn’t have worried: the hospitality of the staff and the quality of the accommodations were more than satisfactory—as was the fact that, due to the absence of suites, they each were given their own rooms.

The final plans for the rescue of her mother were still not fixed, because much depended on the exact circumstances in which she was being held, but it was understood that it would happen tomorrow night. Genevieve prayed for success and longed to see her mother safe, but what that also meant was that tonight would be her last night with Max.

“I’ll be back as soon as I can” was the last thing he whispered into her ear as they reached the top of the central stairs, where the Gasthaus divided into separate wings and the men were escorted in one direction, the women in another. After exchanging a few words with Emmy and assuring Berthe that she didn’t need her, Genevieve went into her own room, a large chamber with heavy dark furniture, a fur spread on the bed and numerous tapestries depicting bloody hunting scenes on the walls. She bathed in the en suite, changed into her nightgown and robe, and settled down to wait with growing anxiety for what seemed like a very long time until the knock on her door that she’d been expecting came.

Flinging herself out of bed, where she’d finally taken refuge from the drafts, she opened the door to Max, who was dressed in an overcoat and hat. He was sprinkled with snow and smelled of it and the outdoors. They came together like magnets as soon as the door was closed behind him. He felt cold and damp and big, and his unshaven jaw was rough against her skin as she wrapped her arms around him and kissed him. He kissed her back so thoroughly that she found herself trying not to look as swooningly besotted as she felt, when at last he let her go to take off his coat and hat. Climbing back into bed, she sat with her back against the headboard, pulled the fur spread up around her shoulders—the room was cold, and her nightgown was thin—and regarded him anxiously.

“Did you find her?” she asked. She knew what he’d been doing: getting the lay of the land, as he put it, with Otto.

“Baroness de Rocheford is not on the list of prisoners currently held in Stuttgart.” As he imparted that bombshell, Max pulled the dark sweater he was wearing over his head, folded it and laid it on a chair near the bed. That he had changed the suit, white shirt and tie in which he’d arrived for the sweater and a pair of dark trousers before going out told her that wherever he’d been, he hadn’t wanted to be seen.

“She’s not here?” Genevieve’s heart stood still. “Or—are we too late?”

“If you’re asking whether she’s been executed, the answer’s no. That would have been noted. The Germans keep meticulous records, thank God.” Relieved of her worst worry, she watched as Max pulled off his undershirt, reflexively admiring the heavy muscles of his shoulders, his dark-furred chest and taut abdomen. “The prison was bombed a few weeks ago. Several of the most important prisoners were transferred. And they stopped accepting new arrivals until it can be repaired. She’s never been held there.”

“So where is she?”

“I’m not sure yet.” He sat down on the edge of the bed to take off his shoes and socks. “I’m meeting with someone later who I’m hoping can tell me.”

“What if we got it wrong? What if she’s not in Stuttgart at all?”

“Given the timing, and the fact that Wagner’s here, I think she is. There are lots of places around the city where she could be being held. It’s even possible that she’s up there at the family homestead.”

“Eber Schloss?” Genevieve thought of the mountaintop castle and felt her stomach twist. Then the too-casual tone in which he’d said that last registered, and she gave Max a sharp look. “My God, you think she’s there, don’t you? You’ve thought it all along. You knew that was Wagner’s home, knew the prison had been damaged and guessed that if he was in Stuttgart, that’s where he’d take her. That’s why you didn’t put up more of a fuss about me coming with you to Stuttgart. I’m your ticket in.”

“Something like that.” His tone was brisk as, now barefoot as well as shirtless, he stood up.

“You couldn’t have told me?”

“At this point, it’s pure speculation. You’re here because I believe in covering all the bases.”

“Uh-huh.” Genevieve eyed him skeptically, then had another thought. “If she’s up there, I can get us in, so that’s not the problem. The problem’s going to be getting back out, isn’t it?”

“That’s usually the problem. We won’t go in without a way out, I promise.”

“I thought you had to meet someone.” She said that as he shucked his trousers, folded them and placed them on the chair alongside his sweater. She’d already learned that he was neat with his belongings, washing out his shaving cup each time he used it, hanging up his towel to dry between uses, folding his clothes when he took them off, and she found it endearing. She’d also discovered how gentle he could be, that he was meticulous about using protection, that he didn’t like the scars on his leg touched, and that lightly scoring her nails up and down his lean sides made him squirm like a fish on a hook, because he was fatally ticklish. Little things, all, but what they added up to was that she was getting to know Max, whom she’d already thought she knew through and through, in a whole new way.

“I do,” he said.

I’m so in love with you it’s crazy, she thought, as, wearing nothing but his boxers, he crawled into bed with her. But she didn’t tell him. Either he would say it back or he wouldn’t, but either way, knowing would only make things worse, because right now was the only time they were going to have, maybe for a few weeks or months or even years, however long it took for the war to be over, or maybe—please God, no—forever.

I won’t think about it now.

She gave him a severe look—with the sigh of a man at last finding comfort, he was stretching his long length out on the mattress while tugging at her enveloping fur—and said, “Well, then?”

His arm snaked around her and he pulled her down into his arms. “Not till 3:00 a.m.,” he said, and kissed her.

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