Michael Grant - Purple Hearts

“A friend?”

Étienne shrugs. “A person I know.”

“A woman,” Marie says with sudden heat. “A woman who is a collaboratrice horizontale .”

“A what?”

“A horizontal collaborator, a woman who sleeps with Germans.” She spits dramatically out of the window and makes a gesture with her hand like she’s trying to fling her chin at Étienne.

“She sometimes provides useful information,” Étienne says defensively.

“Yes, but to whom?” Marie demands sourly.

Étienne shrugs. “Marianne is a patriot.”

Marie’s response is a snort.

“She may be able to give me information about the Das Reich. It is true that one of her . . . friends . . . is a Sturmbannführer , what you would call a major.”

In the end the decision comes down to Rainy’s need to use the toilet and her desire to stretch her legs. The stop is approved.

Étienne parks in a narrow street near a small, arched bridge over the River Tardoire. The street is walled by limestone and stucco homes built right to the edge of the road. Windows are mostly shuttered, though Rainy hears a child singing through one open second story window.

“There is a café just over the bridge,” Marie says, leading the way as a somewhat embarrassed Étienne knocks on one of the doors. They cross the bridge and Rainy is delighted to see an impressive chateau looming over the town. It is like something from a fairy tale, something a princess might inhabit while pining for her Prince Charming.

So this is France, Rainy thinks. She’d always hoped to visit France, but not like this.

They find the café, a small, dark room smelling of damp limestone, garlic and red wine. There are six tables, only two occupied, and a small bar with no stools.

At the threshold Marie freezes for a moment and Rainy plows into her. It is immediately clear what has made Marie hesitate: one of the tables is occupied by a middle-aged French couple; the other is occupied by three German soldiers, junior officers by the look of their youthful faces, and confirmed by collar-boards with three silver pips. They are the equivalent of lieutenants, Rainy’s own rank.

And they are Waffen SS, as clearly indicated by the twin lightning-flash insignia. They wear camouflage uniforms, not the formal black, and Rainy notes a grease stain on one man’s trouser leg, evidence that they are not on leave or enjoying a day pass, but have managed to escape some sort of field maneuver for a quick bite in town. No doubt the food is better in the café than in the field kitchen.

Three Schmeisser submachine guns lean against the wall by the table.

One of the men, an Untersturmführer with prominent brows and a mangled left ear, looks up. He grins wolfishly at Marie. Then sees Rainy, sees the widow’s black, and nods politely. He tears off a chunk of bread and goes back to his plate of langoustines.

Sitting too far from the SS men will be a signal. So will sitting too close. Marie guides them to the one table that is neither.

Rainy sees a hand-lettered sign pointing to “WC,” the toilets, which are outside in an alley, a Turkish-style squat toilet with privacy provided only by a short, greasy draw curtain. Rainy does what is necessary, all the while in a sort of fugue state, half paralyzed with fear, half working through the odds.

Every part of Rainy resists going back into the café. Of course she knows she must, she can hardly abandon Marie, let alone her mission, but it will not be pleasant eating within a few feet of the Germans.

Back inside, Rainy listens while Marie orders a dozen oysters, two cheval steaks—horse meat, the only meat on the menu—and fried potatoes, as well as white wine and a bottle of mineral water. All perfectly normal and perfectly unremarkable.

Rainy has her back to the Germans and listens intently while seeming to carry on a sort of minimalist, whispered exchange with Marie.

Water, wine and a baguette arrive, and are plopped on the table by the proprietor, who is the only visible staff.

The Germans discuss prostitutes in ways that make Rainy glad Marie does not speak German. Though some notion of what they are so crudely talking about must have penetrated Marie’s consciousness, because she blushes and bites her lip.

The oysters arrive.

The Germans move on to talking about someone named Burkhart, who is apparently a drunk, a loafer, and utterly useless, but knows all the best jokes. The Germans begin repeating jokes and laughing in a deliberately noisy, demonstrative way that makes the older French couple cringe.

The Germans call for another bottle of wine. Their second? Their third?

The atmosphere in the room, never exactly convivial, grows increasingly tense and menacing. Drunk German soldiers are never a good thing; drunk SS are worse. Drunk members of the Das Reich are worse still. Rainy has read the dossiers: the Das Reich fought on the Eastern Front against the Soviet Red Army, where even among the brutal forces in that pitiless fight, the Das Reich stood out for its monstrous treatment of prisoners, civilians, and especially Jews.

The Untersturmführer with the mangled ear is clearly looking at Marie, but also, increasingly, at Rainy.

The oysters are cleared away and the steaks arrive.

In ten minutes they can be finished and on their way. Ten minutes. Ten minutes in which Marie and Rainy must mimic an innocent pair of young Frenchwomen who have stopped for a quick lunch. Two women who are aware of the Germans, but not overly aware.

Suddenly Mangled Ear pushes back from the table, wobbles a bit to the hooting enjoyment of his compatriots, demands to know where the toilet is, and lurches right into Rainy and Marie’s table.

Rainy glances at Marie and sees fear in her eyes.

“ Pardonnez moi ,” the German says in barely-decipherable French.

“ Pas de quoi ,” Marie says in a whisper. She looks down at her plate.

“ Untersturmführer Fritz Weiss, a votre service, mesdemoiselles. Zwei, er, deux jolies mademoiselles. Pourquoi toute seul? ”

It’s mostly French, not grammatical, but comprehensible. He’s asking why two pretty young women are there alone.

Marie offers their cover story. They are traveling to a wedding, the madame’s wedding, in fact, in the company of Marie’s brother, Étienne, who will be back at any moment.

At this the German grabs a chair, pulls it close and sits down with them. “You don’t mind? More wine here! The ladies are parched!” He leers openly at Marie’s chest and she pulls back. Then he turns shrewd eyes on Rainy and asks, “Where are you from?”

“Fouras,” she lies in a hoarse whisper she hopes will disguise her accent.

The Walther is hard against her back. A suicide pill is sewn into the collar of her dress. She can feel the knife strapped to her leg.

The German waves that off. “I mean your family. You’re not French.”

Rainy offers a baffled smile. Marie steps in and says of course she is French, they are cousins.

The German tilts his head to the side. Then he reaches over, takes Rainy’s chin and turns her face sideways in profile.

“No Frenchie ever had a nose like that,” he says, and now the other two Germans are quiet and attentive, sensing their companion is up to something.

Rainy allows the hand, then, with disdain, pushes it away.

“I know a Jew when I see one,” the Untersturmführer says, his voice silky but slurred with drink.

Rainy puts on a baffled look.

The German rests both his elbows on the table and leans close, his breath stinking of red wine and cigarettes. “I’ve seen many a Jew,” he says, watching Rainy closely. “I know the look of a Jew. I know the smell of a Jew.” He has a sudden idea. “Patron! Bring us ham!”