Vogel

TUESDAY, JUNE 13, 1944

AMIENS, FRANCE

STANDARTENFUHRER HANS VOGEL entered cell 51. His black uniform was spotless and sat on his shoulders the way it would a man comfortable with physical exertion. The SS insignia on his collar faintly reflected the light from the bare bulb hanging from the ceiling. It was the only illumination in the cell, which reeked of urine and the familiar coppery scent of blood.

The naked prisoner sat in a steel chair straddling the drain in the middle of the room. His wrists were bound to the arms of the chair, his ankles held fast to its legs. Leather straps held his chest rigid. One eye was swollen and purple. His lips were shredded, and his body was peppered with bruises. A sergeant wearing a Wehrmacht uniform was standing behind the chair awaiting Vogel’s arrival. There were no windows in the gray stone dungeon, and the air was cold.

Sergeant, what have you learned so far? he asked in French so that the prisoner would understand as well.

Nothing, Colonel. He’s as dumb as a rock.

Hans approached the prisoner and looked him over carefully. Although he had been severely beaten, Hans noticed that his fingers were not yet broken. They were small, slender, and almost feminine.

May I have a chair, please, Sergeant?

Of, course, Colonel, and he rushed to place a chair in front of the prisoner, eager to please.

Hans sat down and flipped through the prisoner’s dossier. So, Monsieur St-Onge, I see you were caught attempting to break into a German armory.

The prisoner made no reply.

Your silence will not change the outcome. We must shoot you as a saboteur, of course, but between now and then, well... that is up to you.

The prisoner’s one open eye stared back at him without emotion. His left hand moved in the leather cuff, a slight tremor in the index finger as if pointing to something far off that only he could see.

All of that unpleasantness can be easily avoided, of course, with the slightest degree of cooperation on your part. There were four of you involved. I’ll only ask for the name of one of them. That’s not so much to ask; is it?

The prisoner’s open eye closed, cowering behind the lid, unable to meet Vogel’s cold stare. Hans suddenly stood up. What is your name, Sergeant?

Hamm, Colonel, Sergeant Fritz Hamm.

Continue your questioning, Sergeant Hamm. I will observe.

Sergeant Hamm nodded, expecting the order. He drew a baton from his belt and stood before the prisoner. Give me a name. When no reply was forthcoming, he swung the baton down upon the prisoner’s left shoulder, breaking the collarbone. The prisoner cried out in pain but offered no response, his head falling forward, grimacing in agony.

Speaking in German, Vogel interrupted. I suspect that you have received little training in interrogation technique.

I have received none, Standartenfuhrer.

Let me offer some advice and instruction. I would suggest that you first blindfold the prisoner. Please do so now.

Sergeant Hamm tied a cloth over the prisoner’s eyes and stood back against the wall. Vogel asked for his baton and walked around the prisoner. Reverting to French, he said, Monsieur St-Onge will decide for himself how much pain he wishes to endure. The decision to stop is entirely his.

He swung the baton down upon the right knee of the prisoner, who cried out involuntarily. He then lightly tapped the stick against the side of the prisoner’s neck and caressed his cheek with it. You see, Sergeant, the prisoner does not know where or when the next blow will land. Blindfolded, he cannot prepare himself. He swung the baton down on the prisoner’s knuckles and continued to walk around him.

Do you understand, Sergeant? he said, resting the baton upon the prisoner’s head. Add suspense and surprise to the pain and your effectiveness is compounded. He delivered one more slash across the prisoner’s right shin, an exceedingly painful blow.

Here is your baton, Sergeant. Report to me when he gives us a name.

Yes, Colonel. Thank you for the instruction.

Addressing the prisoner, Vogel added, Good luck to you, Monsieur St-Onge. May your suffering be short-lived.

He left the room and closed the door behind him. There were ten cells in this basement, but only four were occupied. They had been full yesterday.

VOGEL CLIMBED THE basement stairs and returned to his office on the first floor. It was a much larger room than the office space to which he was accustomed. The Chateau they occupied had once been luxurious, and all the main rooms were spacious.

He sat behind a massive wooden desk and paused to appreciate its craftsmanship. He traced the intricate carving along its edge with his finger and noticed the tarnished brass knob of the right top drawer. A black telephone rested on the desktop to his left. A stacked metal tray on his right held dossiers and other paperwork.

Fleur-de-lis patterned wallpaper adorned the walls, marred only by the lingering rectangular ghosts of former French dignitaries. The picture of Adolph Hitler, hanging between two tall windows at Vogel’s back, was now the only portrait surveying the room.

Hans reached for the stack of dossiers and removed a thick file from the top, its cover worn with use. He checked the log, and he was pleased that the handwritten notes were clear and legible. The Gestapo had identified Monsieur Rene Deslaurier as the likely ringleader of the local French Resistance cell responsible for a bridge demolition two weeks prior, but they had failed to locate him. The most recent entry on the dossier was dated Friday, June 9, 1944, three days after the Allied landing, and three days before Vogel’s arrival yesterday in Amiens.

Vogel reflected on the timing of the sabotage. In hindsight, that operation was a blatant attempt by the French Resistance to disrupt the flow of reinforcements to the coast of Normandy. Many in Army Command believed that had the Panzers been unleashed as soon as the Allied invasion began, that the invaders could have been contained on the beachhead, and driven back into the sea. To what degree the actions of the saboteurs would have hampered the armored reinforcement was moot now, as the High Command had refused to release the armor, entirely convinced that the Allies would land at Calais instead, believing that the Normandy landing was only a ruse to draw the German forces away from Calais. The High Command in Berlin had been wrong.

Not for the first time, Hans wondered what it would feel like to drive a tank into battle. He would have volunteered for armor if given a choice, but instead found himself trained as an SS Intelligence Officer. He supposed his facility with languages influenced their decision for such an assignment, and in some ways, he felt the role suited him, but in other ways, he knew it did not.

He scanned the Deslaurier dossier. The reports indicated that the subject lived here in Amiens with his wife and child. Madame Deslaurier had been questioned and released. Their apartment was under constant surveillance, but there was no report of contact with the suspect.

Vogel picked up his telephone and ordered his adjutant to come in. Corporal Keppler immediately entered and stood at ease a respectable distance from the front of Vogel’s desk.

Is Madame Deslaurier still under surveillance?

She is, Colonel. I have this evening’s report on my desk. There’s been no suspicious activity.

Vogel thought for a minute, then said, Have Madame Deslaurier picked up in the morning. I want to speak to her myself. But I want her treated with respect and politeness, Corporal.

Yes, sir, I’ll be explicit when I write the order. What about the child, Colonel?

Vogel looked at the dossier again. She is only four years old. It would not be safe for her to be left at home by herself. Bring her along, and have some sweet treats to give her when they arrive.

HANS HEARD HIS stomach growl, checked his watch, and realized that he hadn’t eaten since breakfast, so he left the Chateau and walked a short distance to La Pomme Rouge, a local restaurant frequented by the SS.

When Vogel entered the restaurant, the proprietor, Monsieur Alphonse Dugre, hurried across the room and bowed respectfully. They had never met but had learned to recognize the rank insignia of his new clientele. Vogel saw a small Frenchman with a thin mustache, wearing a faded tuxedo. His hair was dyed black and cut long to comb over his bald spot. Vogel noticed the worn cuffs and scuffed shoes. French patrons had avoided the establishment since the SS began dining there regularly. The owner had no choice. However, the German officers were generous with their tips, and Vogel had been told that the food was always very good.

Welcome, Colonel. Will you be dining alone?

Yes. I want a quiet table out of the way.

Dugre bowed and said, Follow me, please, Colonel.

He was seated in a booth on the far side of the room. The dining room hinted at its former elegance, with ornate red and gold wallpaper. He noticed dim light patterns on the walls and looked up. A single candle high above was the source; its flickering light refracted through the ornate crystals of a delicate chandelier hanging in the center of the room. The once highly polished floor was worn and scuffed from years of foot traffic. A group of four Wehrmacht officers sat at one table across the room and resumed their conversation. A smaller table was occupied by a man in a civilian suit accompanied by a pretty woman. The man caught Vogel’s eye and nodded. Vogel nodded back. The Gestapo ate here too.

He was handed a menu in both French and German. Hans ordered the special of the day. After the waiter left, an SS officer came to the table and introduced himself.

Excuse me, Standartenfuhrer. I am Sturmbannfuhrer Joseph Hoffmeyer. I have just arrived in Amiens, and I’ve been told this was the best place for dinner. I was ordered to report to you in the morning, but I thought I would take this opportunity to introduce myself.

Excellent. Please sit down, Major. Would you dine with me?

I’m honored, Colonel.

Hoffmeyer was a large man, his uniform disheveled from traveling, and he seemed pleased with the prospect of a quality dinner. As was his custom, Vogel said nothing, waiting for Hoffmeyer to begin the conversation.

Thank you, again, Hoffmeyer said, It was a long trip.

And where was your last station, Major?

I was in Toulon. A lovely place but too brief a stay to offer much respite from the war. Now that the Allies have landed here, most of us in Intelligence have been transferred north to serve as needed.

And where were you before that?

This spring I was in Hungary, Operation Margarethe, he said. We initiated the Actions to rid the country of much of its Jewish occupation. Before that, I was doing similar duty in Southern Russia. I was assigned to accompany Von Paulus’s Sixth Army into Stalingrad, but was transferred back to Kiev before the tragic fall of that Army last year.

Vogel knew all this, having read Hoffmeyer’s service record, but it gave him the opportunity to read his new subordinate as he spoke. Hoffmeyer seemed relaxed and confident, traits Vogel admired and respected.

Vogel called the proprietor to their table and told Hoffmeyer to order anything he liked. My treat, Vogel said, welcome to Amiens.

After the Major ordered, Vogel ordered a bottle of their best wine. Monsieur Dugre brought them a bottle of Cabernet, saying, This is our finest, Colonel.

The label displayed a picture of the Eiffel Tower. He thanked the proprietor, and turned to Major Hoffmeyer, I haven’t been to Paris yet. Have you?

No Colonel. The only place I’ve been in France before today was Toulon.

Monsieur Dugre brought the appetizers, and Vogel waited for him to leave before speaking further. He assumed that the proprietor understood German after serving German officers for four years.

When he would not be overheard, he said, Our orders are to identify, capture, and eliminate all partisan activity in our operational area centered here in Amiens. We are not, at this time, concerned with Jews. The partisans have destroyed railroad bridges, hampered the movement of troops and supplies, and have actively aided British and American spies. Our front-line troops depend on us to protect their back. Our mission is vital. When you come to my office in the morning, I will review our situation in detail and give you specific assignments, but for this evening, Major, let us dine as civilized men.

AFTER PAYING THE check with German Reichmarks, the men parted, and Vogel looked forward to returning to his apartment on Le Rue de Huchers. The streets were dark, and he saw only two other people, a man and a woman, walking toward him. They were both young, and when they saw him, they slowed down, unsure of continuing. Vogel smiled and stepped to the side, waving them forward. They returned nervous smiles and hurried on as soon as they had passed him.

He noticed the time and remembered Fifi. She must be waiting for him with some impatience. He quickened his pace, and when he arrived, Fifi was indeed put out. She rubbed against his leg, and when he put her food on the floor, she purred in gratitude. Hans smiled and petted her as she ate. Hans found her the previous evening upon being assigned to this apartment and was happy for her company. The large, orange cat did not seem to miss the previous occupants of the apartment as long as she was fed and cared for.

WEDNESDAY, JUNE 14

WHEN VOGEL ARRIVED at the Chateau the next morning, he was informed by Corporal Keppler that Madame Deslaurier and her daughter were waiting for him in the sitting room.

Good, Vogel said. Let them wait a few hours. When Major Hoffmeyer arrives, send him to my office.

He is here already, sir, I can send him in now.

Vogel spent the next few hours bringing Hoffmeyer up to speed and detailing his assignments. After concluding their business, he dismissed Hoffmeyer and instructed Corporal Keppler to bring Madame Deslaurier and the child to his office.

As they entered, Vogel rose from the chair and walked around his desk to greet them.

Please, Madame, have a seat here, as he led her to a seating area on the left side of the spacious room.

What is your daughter’s name, Madame? She is lovely.

Marie, she said, in a soft, hesitant voice.

Vogel smiled and sat on a light blue stuffed chair opposite the matching couch. Madame Deslaurier sat on the couch, clutching her daughter, looking down at the small ornate coffee table between them as though it held some mysterious lure. She wore a blue peasant dress with a maroon shawl covering her shoulders. Marie sat on her lap in a cute brown skirt and white blouse. Vogel liked the little hat that she wore canted to one side. Very French, he thought. Marie looked directly at him. He saw no fear in her eyes, but recognized her curiosity and concern, sensing her mother’s anxiety.

Thank you, Madame, for accepting my invitation, he said.

She looked up sharply and said, Invitation? Is that what it was?

Vogel looked surprised, and asked, What? Were you or Marie mistreated? Did my messenger misbehave?

He watched her, waiting for an answer until finally, she said, No. We weren’t.

He introduced himself adding, … and your name is Genevieve, I believe. That was my mother’s name. She was half-French. Everyone called her Genna. May I call you ‘Genna’ in her memory, Madame Deslaurier?

If you want.

I have a chocolate treat for Marie, and here’s one for yourself, as well. He opened a small box that he carried with him and produced two German chocolate bars, handing them both to Genevieve. She could see that the box was almost full of chocolate.

Now that she was looking at him, he said, I invited you here, ‘Genna’…, Hans paused and smiled sheepishly, out of concern for you and your daughter. We know all about your husband’s activities with the Resistance, and I’m sure you know that the Gestapo has been looking for him for some time. I’ve recently arrived in Amiens, and I’m specifically tasked with locating him. Do you know where he is?

No, Colonel, I do not, she replied, He has been gone for over three weeks, since before the invasion. I don’t even know if he is dead or alive.

Either you have had no word from him, or you are better at the game than we are, is that not so?

Genna looked down, avoiding his eyes, and shifted Marie’s position on her lap. She said, I am just a housewife. I’m sure your men are all competent professionals.

Would you like a cup of coffee, and perhaps a glass of water for Marie? I’ll have some brought in if you like.

Thank you. We are both thirsty.

He went to his desk, picked up the telephone and ordered Corporal Keppler to bring coffee and water. After the corporal delivered them and left the room, Hans offered another chocolate to Marie, who smiled and took it gratefully.

The problem, Genna, Vogel continued, is that the Gestapo suspects that you know the whereabouts of your husband, and they are anxious to bring you in for questioning. Their methods, I’m afraid, are quite severe, and they will go to great lengths to determine with surety that you are not withholding valuable information.

As he anticipated, Vogel watched the color rise on her face. He stood up and returned to his desk, picked up the phone and asked Corporal Keppler to come in.

Corporal, please stay here with Marie. Share some chocolate with her if you like.

Returning his attention to Genevieve, he began walking towards the door and said, Come with me, please. I want to show you something.

When he reached the door, he stopped and looked back, waiting patiently for Genna to join him. Her reluctance was palpable, but he stared at her until she complied. As they walked out of the room, Genevieve looked back at Marie, who seemed relaxed and unconcerned, laughing at something the young Corporal Keppler said to her.

Vogel said quietly, Do not be concerned, Genna, we will be right back. I promise. No harm will come to you or Marie while you are with me today.

He knew she wanted to believe him, but could not ignore the terror he inspired clutching her heart. If she didn’t return, who would be there for Marie?

Vogel gently took her elbow and guided her through the door toward the staircase. He felt her body stiffen when she realized that they were going to the basement, but he smiled reassuringly, and she accompanied him down the stairs, knowing she had no choice.

When they reached cell 51, he stopped and opened the door. Scharfuhrer Hamm was sitting in a chair by the wall but jumped to attention when he saw Vogel.

Standartenfuhrer, he said in German, the prisoner has given us a name, and I have waited here for you as ordered.

Excellent, Sergeant. See that Monsieur St-Onge is given medical attention while we verify his information.

Genevieve saw Monsieur St-Onge strapped to a chair in the middle of the room. He was barely conscious, his body broken, dried blood caked around the circular drain in the floor. She recoiled in horror.

Turning to Genevieve, Vogel said in French, This is Sergeant Hamm. He assists the Gestapo with questioning when required. Prisoners always cooperate at some point, Genna.

He watched her stare at St-Onge and shudder. Then she looked at Sergeant Hamm, whose face remained impassive.

Shall we go back upstairs? he asked.

When they were reseated in his office, Hans could see Genevieve still shaking, both arms wrapped around Marie, clutching the child to her chest. He retrieved a bottle of Schnapps from his desk and poured a small glass for her and one for himself.

Here, he said, This will help some.

She took the glass and looked at him, unsure. He sipped his drink first, and then she did the same.

I’m going to send you and Marie home, Genna, but I must warn you that the well-being of innocent civilians isn’t high on the Gestapo’s list of priorities.

She looked at him directly now. But what can I do? I don’t know where he is…

I understand, Genna, Vogel told her, but the Gestapo will not. They will rip your husband’s location right out of your heart if you know it, and if you don’t have what they want, they will tear you up anyway.

Genevieve looked at Marie and held her even more closely.

Hans reached out and gently pushed some stray hair out of Marie’s face saying, She is so beautiful, Genna.

Vogel poured her more Schnapps, which she drank down immediately. You have a few days to find out where your husband is before the Gestapo takes the matter out of my hands. If you tell me, I will be able to protect you and Marie. Isn’t that what Rene would want you to do?

With that, he rose and picked up the telephone. Corporal, he ordered, Bring Madame Deslaurier and her daughter home. And please escort them yourself to ensure their safety.

Turning back, he said, Good luck, Genna. If you learn anything useful, hang something red in your window overlooking the street, and my men will escort you back to me. That is the only way I know I can help you.

He walked them to the door, smiled reassuringly, and closed it behind them.

FROM HIS PERCH near the top of the tenement building across from Gestapo headquarters, Pierre Vachon put down his binoculars and made another note. He had the morning shift, dutifully recording comings and goings. A brick in the building’s façade had been removed and a small screen mesh inserted to diffuse any reflected light. He had noted the arrival of Madame Deslaurier earlier that morning and was relieved when he watched her depart, accompanied by a German soldier. He recorded the time and resumed his observation.

Pierre had been fifteen years old when the Nazis conquered his country – too young for the military, too old for childhood. His father had been a leader in the Resistance in the early years of the occupation. His mother knew of his activities but had not participated. They were both dead – shot by the SS as saboteurs. He had been lucky to have escaped execution himself. His father had told him ahead of time of the possibility that he would be taken from them, but no one thought Pierre’s mother was in danger. Pierre was home the night they were arrested. There was a discussion among the Germans about the boy, but the one in charge decided to leave him there.

He remembered watching them being led away, while a German soldier holding a rifle across his chest to keep him back. His parents never returned. He later joined the Resistance and was willing to contribute any way he could. Now, at nineteen, he was determined to avenge his parent's deaths. He was sure his time would come. He hated the SS.

BACK AT HIS DESK, Vogel waited for the Gestapo Chief, Herr Fisch, to come to his office. While waiting, he reviewed Sergeant Hamm’s report. St-Onge claimed that a woman, Jeannette Broussard, planned the operation but did not participate directly. He said the raid was planned so that none of the men knew each other. They used no names, and there was no one else he could identify.

Vogel checked the files and found a dossier on Mademoiselle Broussard. The Gestapo was good at gathering such information, and Hans appreciated that useful service to the Reich. The woman worked in the Amiens Post Office. She was 31 years old, single, and was not a suspect in any ongoing investigation.

He was considering his next move when Corporal Keppler announced the arrival of Herr Fisch. Send him in, Corporal, he ordered.

Vogel had read Fisch’s file, but it told him almost nothing of interest. Hans suspected that he would find all Gestapo files similarly bland, at least those portions available to non-Gestapo observers.

There had been tension between the two men when Vogel first arrived two days ago. The Gestapo enjoyed considerable freedom in their duties and were understandably miffed when the orders Vogel carried placed him in authority over Fisch’s local Gestapo unit, but the successful Allied landing and the rash of partisan activity demanded a military involvement, a specialty of the SS.

Vogel stood behind his desk as Herr Fisch entered. Fisch gave the Nazi salute, and shouted an enthusiastic, Heil Hitler.

With fake enthusiasm to match Fisch’s, Vogel said, Heil Hitler, Herr Fisch. Please have a seat.

Thank you, Commandant, Fisch replied, then sat in the oversized wooden chair across from Vogel’s desk. It was one of the improvements Vogel had installed the day before. The large, hard-backed chair caused Herr Fisch to feel subtly diminished, without knowing why. Vogel’s chair had been raised a little higher.

Herr Fisch wore large round spectacles. They enlarged his eyes out of proportion to his narrow face, and his jet black hair was combed straight back. He wore a nice gray suit, and Vogel noticed that his shoes were highly polished. Fisch was not a man who roughed it.

Herr Fisch, Vogel began, "I want to clarify our relationship in light of our last meeting. I’m here to prevent the Resistance from interfering with the flow of troops and supplies from Calais to Normandy. I command a self-contained force of 250 SS soldiers. They all speak French fluently and have been trained by me to deal with civilians.

I hope that we can combine the muscle of the SS with the intelligence gathering prowess of the Gestapo. I’m a soldier, Herr Fisch. I expect to get the job done. You have valuable intelligence that I need. Are we going to have a problem?"

No, Commandant. I appreciate your frankness, he said, but Vogel noticed how tightly Fisch gripped the arms of the chair. Herr Fisch continued, The Gestapo will be happy to utilize the muscle of the SS most effectively.

Vogel smiled inwardly. So this was how it was going to be.

I look forward to hearing your recommendations, Herr Fisch. They will be most helpful; I’m sure.

Fisch did not reply. He stared at Vogel. Vogel stared back until Fisch looked away.

Vogel said, I see that you have augmented your personnel with Wehrmacht soldiers serving as guards and interrogators.

Yes, Commandant. The additional personnel frees the Gestapo to focus primarily on surveillance while the Wehrmacht performs the more mundane tasks.

The Wehrmacht are front-line soldiers, untrained for interrogation. I intend to implement a training program to increase their effectiveness. I will supervise some of the training myself, but I require the assistance of a Gestapo agent who has demonstrated effective interrogation technique. Who do you recommend for the assignment?

Scharfuhrer Franz Schulenburg, without question. He enjoys the work.

Please reassign him to me as soon as possible.

Right away, Commandant.

On another topic, Herr Fisch, I spoke yesterday with Monsieur St-Onge, and he has given us the name of a contact with the Partisans. Are you familiar with Mademoiselle Jeannette Broussard?

The name is not immediately familiar, Fisch said.

I want to verify his claim without drawing attention to the Broussard woman. I would like you to switch your surveillance team from Madame Deslaurier to Broussard and leave Madame Deslaurier alone for a few days.

Is it wise to leave the Deslaurier woman without surveillance?

I want her to make contact with her missing husband. Non-contact has always been his safest recourse. It will be easier to accomplish our goal without Gestapo surveillance for the moment.

Frisch frowned, but said, As you command. We will be careful to avoid detection by Broussard and leave Deslaurier to you for now.

After he left, Hans considered Herr Fisch. Fisch had presented himself with wary deference to Vogel’s authority. He would bear careful watching.

CHAPTER TWO

WHEN GENEVIEVE RETURNED to her apartment, she scrutinized the rooms. None of her subtle placements had been moved, and she was confident that the Gestapo had not searched her apartment in her absence. She prepared lunch for Marie, and while her daughter ate, she wrote an abbreviated note to her husband about her meeting with Colonel Vogel.

After lunch, she took Marie and a small basket of laundry to the basement and proceeded to wash some clothes in the wash tub. When she was sure that they were alone and unobserved, she slid the rolled note into an open pipe behind the wash tub. The letter would be picked up later and relayed to the Resistance. Returning to her apartment, she pulled down two window shades that faced the west side of the building precisely three-fourths of the way to the bottom.

JEANNETTE BROUSSARD WAS sitting at her desk in the Post Office when a letter for Monsieur Ernest Mandeville was handed to her by the clerk.

Merci, Rachelle, she said and put the letter in the second draw on the left side of her desk. She would not open it here. Were she to be accosted by the Gestapo, it would be difficult to explain why she was delivering a letter that had been opened. As long as it remained sealed, she was just the postmistress doing her job, attempting to deliver a letter – contents unknown.

When the Post Office closed at 3:00 pm, she locked the door and began her walk home. She carried a small mail pouch from which she would deliver mail on her way. After her third delivery, a man approached her from ahead and tipped his hat, completely removing it from his head in the process. She ignored him, finished her deliveries, and entered the white apartment house she called home.

Estelle had already been home for some time, as she worked at the bakery in the early morning hours. They were good friends, and sometimes more than that. Two young women living together under Nazi occupation was familiar and drew no attention. It was effective cover from the Gestapo, who viewed French men as far more dangerous than French women, and two women together presented no obvious threat at all.

Estelle was 28, and her short blond curls sharply contrasted with Jeannette’s long black hair. She was standing over the stove boiling potatoes for their supper when Jeannette entered the small second-floor apartment. She turned to greet her, but her eyebrows rose in question when Jeannette ignored her and proceeded to close the front curtains.

What is it? she asked.

I was being followed today, Jeannette said as she hung the mail pouch on a peg near the door.

Are you sure?

I was given the sign on the street.

This is the first time, isn’t it? Estelle asked.

It is that we know of.

Are you carrying anything?

Yes, but I don’t know what it is, and I don’t dare open it here. It will have to wait.

Is it a Mandeville letter?

Yes. But it’s too risky to deliver it directly if the Gestapo is watching me. After we eat, I’ll put it in a larger envelope and bring it to Michelle. She’ll know what to do with it.

I could do it if you want, Estelle offered. She played only a minor role in the Resistance but was eager to do more.

No, my dear. It is too risky. If they continue to watch me, they may watch those close to me as well. It’s better if we use a more circuitous route.

All right. That makes sense. Are you hungry? Dinner is almost ready, and I was able to bring home two eclairs from the bakery this morning.

I’m famished, she said, and the thought of the eclairs drew forth a grateful smile.

The two women had been sharing the apartment for three months. The Resistance took Estelle in when her brother was killed in a bomb-making attempt. The apartment was small, a combined kitchen and dining room with a wooden table and chairs that required constant re-gluing. There was only one bedroom, but the little apartment came with a bathroom.

The living room offered modest wartime furnishings, and also served as an art studio for Estelle. Her paintings hung on the walls, while others in various stages of incompletion rested on easels, patiently awaiting attention. An unfinished pencil sketch of the Cathedral of Notre Dame leaned against one wall, gathering dust, twin arms raised in surrender.

Her most recent completed work was displayed near the windows, the natural light enhancing its blue-gray tones. She had painted a memory - the half-hidden face of a sad-looking young man she knew so well, looking out through a filmy train window.

Estelle clearly remembered standing among the hundreds of people crowded together on the train station’s platform. Fathers and mothers, children, friends, and lovers, all saying goodbye to their men. She watched him board with his military unit, climbing the narrow steps, hurrying to keep up, then gone, swallowed by events larger than themselves.

She stood still, watching the windows, looking for any sign of him. Somehow, amid all the frantic motion and the deafening noise, they saw each other one more time. His face among many crowding the window, looking at her over another man’s shoulder. She smiled and waved, and then she saw it in his eyes. Her lover knew that he would not be coming back.

In her painting, only his partial face stood out; the other faces blurred and vague. Sometimes she thought she got his eyes right, at other times, she wasn’t so sure. She wasn’t entirely satisfied with her work, but it was the best she could do.

A life-sized portrait of Jeannette’s head and bare shoulders hung in their bedroom. Her lovely complexion framed perfectly by the black hair draped to her shoulders. Estelle had captured the intensity in her eyes, and her determination in the set of her mouth. It was Estelle’s vision of Jeannette. There was no smile in the portrait.

Estelle was an