‘Interviewed him. There’s a difference,’ said Kranz. ‘As I say, too cowardly to put up much of a resistance. Rather ironic use of the word.’
‘My brother was not a coward.’ I ground the words out, even though I knew I should keep my mouth shut. This was not keeping a low profile like Marcel had instructed. This was not being a ghost, as Monsieur Tache had warned me to be. But I couldn’t let Kranz disrespect my brother.
There was amusement in Kranz’s eyes, which only served to infuriate me more, but I managed to bite my tongue.
Kranz wagged his forefinger at me. ‘You should really learn to watch what you say. If you want to keep your job and especially if you want to keep your tongue.’
With that, he strode out of the apartment, letting the door bang closed behind him. ‘Ignorant pig,’ I muttered by way of defiance, even though I wasn’t quite brave enough to say it out loud just in case he carried out his threat. Besides, I needed to keep my job if I was to avenge Edgar’s murder.
I went over to the dresser where he’d indicated the needle and thread were and it was then I noticed a briefcase tucked alongside the piece of furniture.
I paused, considering my actions. My finger tapped against the side of my thigh. I glanced over my shoulder. The door to the suite was closed. I looked back at the case. My heart was picking up speed. Before I had time to talk myself out of it, I nipped across the room and flicked the lock on the door.
I hurried back to the case and laid it flat, looking at the catches. I flicked the locks, and the mechanism pinged open on both sides. My hands shook as I lifted the lid. I did not know what I was going to find, if anything, but this was part of the reason I was here. If and when someone contacted me, I’d be able to share anything of importance that I found. I had to keep providing the Resistance with information to keep my position here valid, which would enable me to do what I needed to do.
The case was full of handwritten letters on all sorts of paper. Some formal-looking and some on scraps. I picked up the first one and scanned the contents. The second was much the same, as was the third.
My breath caught in my throat as I realised what I had found. Letters from Parisians reporting on other Parisians for various violations of the laws. Some were minor infringements, such as using a ration book that belonged to a dead relative, having an endless supply of cigarettes, getting meat on the black market. Others were more serious offences: out after curfew, speaking out against the regime, hiding Jews, being part of the Resistance.
Tears stung my eyes. How could one Frenchman do this to another? It was beyond me. Were people so desperate that they resorted to reporting their neighbours, hoping to get something in return? A lot of these letters were anonymous, though– an opportunity to cause trouble for someone who had once crossed you. It was horrendous. And there weren’t just four or five; there were tens and tens of the hate mail. Maybe fifty letters or more.
I didn’t think these would be of any use to the Resistance and I dug down beyond the letters to see what lay beneath. But there was nothing other than a single sheet of paper folded in half.
I opened it out.
The White Lily
Basilica Sacré-Cœur Crypt
It said nothing else. I turned the paper over to check, but it was blank. The White Lily. What did that mean? It felt important, but I didn’t know why, or how I was going to tell anyone. I wished Marcel or someone else would make contact; then I could pass the information on.
I replaced the piece of paper, together with the raft of poison pen letters. Shame for my fellow countrymen washed over me, quickly replaced by anger that one person could do that to another. I wouldn’t have believed it if I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes.
I clicked the lid of the briefcase closed and slid it back against the side of the cupboard. Locating the needle and thread, I set out to repair the trousers.
Once the repair was done, I left the trousers on the end of Kranz’s bed. The unexpected sewing had taken up a lot of time and I would probably have to work late to get everything done. I knew Madame Bochette would not be pleased at all.
The hands of the clock crawled their way through the morning. My feet ached and my back was killing me. As I was unloading my cart of dirty linen, all I could think about was soaking my feet in a bowl of warm water when I got home later that evening.
‘Nathalie!’ It was Madame Bochette. ‘You’re wanted.’
‘By who?’ I dropped the bedsheet into the basket.
‘Hauptmann Kranz.’
I muttered an expletive under my breath, which obviously wasn’t as muted as I’d thought– Madame Bochette raised her eyebrows and I offered her an apology.
‘I hope you have done nothing wrong,’ snapped my superior. ‘The last thing I want is to upset our guests. Did you break anything? Touch anything you shouldn’t have?’
I felt a warmth to my neck as I thought of the briefcase. ‘No,’ I replied. ‘I repaired his trousers, though.’
Madame Bochette looked surprised. ‘You did what?’
‘He asked me to repair a tear in his trousers.’
‘And what qualifies you to undertake such a request? You should have brought it down here for one of the experienced seamstresses to do.’
‘Kranz asked me to do it,’ I explained. ‘My father is a tailor and I’ve worked in his shop for many years. I’m skilled at that sort of work.’ I could hear the pride in my voice and I sensed that this nugget of information had taken Madame by surprise.
