In his office, Paul put on his coat and grabbed his suitcase and hat. He indulged in one last sweep of the room. He’d packed his personal photos, but he had to leave the paintings of the Aubrey car models, his work, and the factory he’d built.
Grief surged inside, but he tamped it down. All that mattered now was getting home safely with Lucie and Josie.
39
How could you?” Lt. Emil Wattenberg’s face reddened, and his eyes darkened with rage and hurt. “I helped you.”
Lucie’s fingers dug into the pleats in her brown wool skirt, as if digging for hope. Finding none. She would be arrested, turned over to the Germans, and tortured. Proclaiming innocence wouldn’t save her, but it might save Renard and the others.
She steadied her voice. “I have done nothing wrong.”
“I helped you.” The gun shook in his hand. “I told you about the Otto List. I risked my career to tell you. I offered to pay your rent—rent for aterroriste!”
“I appreciate your help. I do.” She implored him with her eyes.
With the gun trained on her, Wattenberg picked up the books by the fireplace, one by one, and shook them. Notes fluttered down like dead leaves.
He scraped them up and thrust them in her face. “These—these are not bookmarks. They’re messages. Terrorist messages.”
If she’d been falsely accused, she would have been indignant,so she shooed the notes away. “How can I know what people put in books?”
“If you didn’t know what they were, why were you burning them?” The truth of his words and the sharpness of his gaze sliced into her.
“I’m cold.” She wrapped her arms around her stomach and shivered. That was no act.
“You are a liar. A terroriste and a liar.” His face twisted with disgust.
She’d thought he was different, a man of culture, a man who cared for her. But his crush wasn’t strong enough to override Nazi ideology.
“I will call the police.” He backed behind the counter with the gun pointed at her. “If you run, I will shoot.”
“I know.” She shuddered as cold and fear united to undo her.
Wattenberg stuck the phone between his ear and his shoulder and dialed.
The shivering took hold, and Lucie let it.
Paul would arrive in Orléans tonight, but she would never join him, never say goodbye. A silent sob bubbled in her throat.
“The police, please,” Wattenberg said in heavily accented French.
Queasiness rolled in Lucie’s empty belly. Would she break under torture? What would she reveal?
Gripping her trembling arms, she eyed the door. If she ran, she’d never make it. But wouldn’t it be better to die than to send others to their deaths?
“This is Lt. Emil Wattenberg with the Wehrmacht. I would like to report a terroriste.”
Lucie’s foot slid toward the door. But her impulses couldn’t be trusted. She had to think, be disciplined, pray.Lord, show me what to do.
“Please transfer my call. I will wait.” Wattenberg stared ahead, his jaw set.
The impulse to run grew. She was fast and agile and a small target. The back door led to the courtyard, to passageways to two streets. It stood about twenty feet away, next to the office.
Her breath stilled. The office. Her bag. Her coat.
Discipline, like molten iron, flowed into the cracks of her impulse and strengthened it.
“Excuse me, Lieutenant?” She hugged herself. “I am so cold. Prison will be even colder. May I please get my coat? It’s in the office.”
