Finn grimaced. Yes, he had been brave, but it would have been better if he’d used a fraction of Delia’s common sense before plowing ahead with his risky scheme. He scrubbed a hand over his jaw and stared at the pilot’s jacket and white silk scarf. The silk lining of the jacket had a German label stitched to it, although the collar had been altered to look like an American-made jacket. The Germans were doing their best to stage this photo with utmost care.
“Please,” Conrad said, “let them take the photo. It is going to go badly for you if you don’t cooperate, and they will eventually get their photo anyway.”
Finn stood, his spirit heavy as he scooped up the scarf and jacket. “Let’s go.”
The photographer was a woman. Wearing slim-fitting trousers, a man’s shirt, and with her dark hair styled in a short bob, Fräulein Kolbe was surprisingly pretty. She spoke English as well. With one hand propped on her hip and holding a small box camera in the other, she flashed him a saucy smile.
“This won’t take long,” she said. “Just stand in front of that wall and look miserable. Then we can get out of here. Oh, and put the jacket on.”
“No,” he said. He still carried the jacket and scarf slung over his shoulder as he entered the private office. It was easy to see why they had brought him here. The room was an ordinary office with a wooden desk and a few chairs, but sunlight flooded through the large window, and the plain white wall opposite the desk worked as a suitable backdrop. The lighting and backdrop were perfect.Now all they needed was a humiliated American pilot, but Finn wouldn’t play along. He folded his arms across his chest, and Fräulein Kolbe sensed his unwillingness.
She spoke in a cajoling tone. “Come on, fly-boy. Don’t make this difficult.” She strolled to a tripod and screwed her camera into place. “The general is going to get his photograph whether you cooperate or not. Just put on the jacket and scarf and look dashing for the camera, or I can get those two thugs over there to help me out.”
There wasn’t much point in refusing to put on the jacket. There were other ways Finn could deprive General Ryckman of his propaganda photograph.
“All right,” he said agreeably and shrugged into the jacket. It looked like an American pilot’s jacket but felt all wrong. The leather was too stiff, too heavy. It smelled strange too. He ignored the smell and draped the white scarf around his neck.
“Where do you want me?” he asked, and Fräulein Kolbe flashed a lascivious smile his way.
“I’d take you anywhere I could get you, but for now, let’s stand in front of the wall. Then give me your most mournful look. Think of a girl back home. Or maybe your mother. They’re both probably missing you about now. Yes?”
Memories of Delia roared to life. So did guilt about his mother. Regret warred with yearning, but he didn’t let it show as he took his place in front of the blank wall.
He met Fräulein Kolbe’s frank gaze and flashed her a wink and a grin.
She captured the shot. “Very nice,” she said. “I’ll keep that one for myself. Now let’s have a properly miserable one for General Ryckman, yes?”
Finn turned his shoulders a bit and slanted her a taunting smile.
“That’s not doing it,” Fräulein Kolbe said. “Come now. Surely it hasn’t been fun being locked up in a dungeon for twelve days. Let’s see some gloom.”
It had been onlytwelve days?It felt much longer than that.
Fräulein Kolbe sighed and said something in German to one of the guards, who hopped off the edge of the desk and drove his fist deep into Finn’s gut.
Stars flashed before his eyes, and he folded inward. Then came another fist, hard as iron, slamming into his side just above a kidney.
The air from his lungs violently expelled, and he went down on his knees. Everything blurred as a sharp pain rolled through his middle, making it impossible to draw another breath. Dimly, through a haze of agony, Conrad rambled out a string of angry orders to the guard. Was he egging the guard on or was it a reprimand?
The reality of the situation sank in. He was completely helpless, and they would probably get their miserable photo of him sooner or later.
But he wouldn’t make it easy for them. He’d lose a piece of his soul if he cooperated. They could beat him to a pulp, but he wouldn’t willingly give the Krauts the picture they wanted.
He flinched when another man knelt beside him, but it was Conrad, offering his shoulder to help him up. Finn got his right foot flat on the wooden floor and pushed himself upright. The soldier who had punched him watched with a smirk, while Fräulein Kolbe stood to the side, her face inscrutable as she watched events unfold.
“Want to try again?” he asked the woman. “I’ll keep smiling through whatever you can dish out. If you want a photo of me looking small and humble, you’ll have to beat me bloody, and that kind of thing shows up in photographs.”
“You don’t have to make it this hard,” Conrad said. “All we want is a photo of you the general can use to help boost the morale of our people. It won’t be circulated outside of Germany.”
That was a lie. The general would send the photo to the four corners of the globe to show that they had triumphed over the American pilot, who briefly got the better of them.
“Forget it,” Finn said. “Ryckman won’t pass up the chance to humiliate me or Mathilde however he can.”
A shadow crossed over Conrad’s face. “Don’t torture yourself over that woman, my friend. She is beyond your help.” The breath froze in Finn’s throat, and he stared at Conrad, who averted his eyes and said, “I lied when I told you I knew nothing of her fate. Mathilde Verhaegen was found guilty of sedition and aiding in the escape of an Allied pilot. She was executed three days ago. I’m sorry.”
The strength left Finn’s knees, and he slid down the wall to slump onto the floor. Mathilde, that brave woman ... dead because she had rescued him. Her children would grow up without her. Little Jeannette was now an orphan.
The camera clicked, and Fräulein Kolbe smiled as she set her camera aside.
