After he’d been handcuffed, Finn trailed Conrad down a narrow corridor. Both guards were grim-faced and heavily armed. Finn concentrated on placing his footsteps carefully lest a stumble alarm the guards.
The lavatory was brightly lit and lined entirely with white tiles. A row of sinks lined one wall, with high spigots along the opposite wall for showers. Electric bulbs glowed overhead, and the only window was covered with iron bars, a stark reminder that he was still trapped in Saint-Gilles Prison.
“Once you have showered, you will be provided with clean clothes,” Conrad said.
“Why?” He didn’t want to look a gift horse in the mouth, but something was going on.
“General Ryckman wants a photograph of you so that he can prove to the world you are alive and not being mistreated.”
That was a debatable point. Though Finn hadn’t been beaten or starved, isolation in a dark, dank cell had tested his limits. As for food, he’d been given nothing but turnips. He’d lost so much weight that his trousers were in danger of slipping off his hips.
“Fine,” he said agreeably. He wanted the shower but had no intention of sitting for a photograph. General Ryckman wanted a photograph for propaganda purposes only.
“Once you undress, we will take your clothing and give you privacy to bathe,” Conrad said. “We will be right outside and will return with clean clothes.”
Finn nodded his agreement, and one of the guards removed his handcuffs. Getting out of the filthy clothes was a relief. He no longer cared about modesty as he tugged off his remaining clothes and nudged them toward the guard, whose face twisted in disgust as he picked them up.
The tile was hard and cold beneath his feet as he padded to the shower area and twisted the knob. Water gurgled and knocked in the pipes, then hissed as spurts of water emerged high above Finn’s head. After a moment, the noise stopped, and the warm water came through strong and steady.
Finn let out a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding as he let the water cascade over his head and down his body, rivulets of grime swirling down the drain.
Had anything ever felt so good? He soaped up quickly, scrubbing and rinsing his hair three times, praying the water would stay warm. It was harsh lye soap but still felt heavenly as he lathered every inch of his body. Warmth seeped into his aching muscles, which had grown stiff from disuse. The shower was a luxury beyond all words. If he was lucky enough to survive the war, he’d never take the gift of a hot shower for granted again.
He was turning his face back toward the spigot, savoring the fall of the water, when a knock on the door interrupted his enjoyment.
“Hurry up in there,” Conrad said. “The photographer is here.”
With reluctance, Finn twisted the knob for the shower. He remained beneath the spigot, letting the last trickle of water slide down his face and then his chest. He reached for a towel as Conrad returned.
“Here is a fresh set of clothes,” Conrad said, dropping a bundle of clothing on the wood bench beneath the window.
Finn froze. Beneath the trousers, shirt, and undergarments was a leather jacket. A pilot’s jacket. It was a clear indication that General Ryckman intended to make the most of capturing the pilot whose escape had proven such an embarrassment.
“You can bring my old clothes back,” Finn said as he dried himself with the towel. “I don’t mind wearing them.”
Conrad gave little laugh. “But we mind smelling them. I think they’ve already been burned.”
Finn, who wasn’t about to walk out of the lavatory naked, tugged on the plain cotton drawers, then the trousers. The clothes were in good condition, although clearly not new. Finn tried not to think about the previous owner, probably a fellow prisoner who was now lying in a grave somewhere.
“Tell me about Mathilde Verhaegen.” Finn had been kept ignorant of any developments, but her trial was probably drawing near.
Conrad gave a nervous laugh. “I’m afraid I don’t keep well informed. I waste too much time reading novels instead of newspapers. At least that’s what my mother always said.”
“So the trial hasn’t happened yet?”
“I don’t know anything,” Conrad said again with a shrug. “Come, you need to put that jacket on, and then we will visit the photographer.”
Prickles of sweat broke out across Finn’s body. Conrad seemed too emphatic. He had glanced away rather than meet Finn’s eyes.
“Please,” Finn implored, “could you find a newspaper or ask around about the case? I need to know.” He’d sacrificed everything for Mathilde. He’d lost his freedom and a future in the Army. He’d lostDelia. He had to know if his sacrifice had meant anything at all.
Conrad sighed and met Finn’s gaze. “Lieutenant Delaney, I truly don’t know what has happened to the lady. Everything is censored here, so it should not be surprising that we are kept in the dark.”
Finn’s limbs felt unbearably heavy, and he dropped onto the wooden bench, unable to stand. He came to Belgium to rescue Mathilde and had lost everything. The Germans would keep him locked up until Mathilde’s fate was decided. It would have been better to use his influence from his home in New York rather than be in prison, helpless under General Ryckman’s control. Now hisphotograph was going to be circulated around the world, proof of his humiliation. He’d been reckless, arrogant, and stupid—a dangerous combination.
He raised his head and looked at Conrad. “Do you think I’m an idiot for trying to take her place?”
“I think you’re the bravest man I know.”
