WINE FOR A PRETTY LADY

By DocB, February 2009

The setting sun turned the reflecting pool into a pond of molten gold, and the fractured image of the Capitol building shimmering on its surface gave the impression of Atlantis rising from the depths. The air was warm, with the merest hint of a near-forgotten winter’s chill. A soft breeze played among the cherry blossoms, releasing their sweet perfume to float along the edge of the water. Somewhere nearby, birds were chattering their last bits of gossip before flitting into freshly built nests for the night.

A steady hum of traffic moved along Constitution Avenue. Rush hour was lighter than normal for a Friday night – most people didn’t want to linger these days. They were anxious to be home in front of their console TV’s, eating their frozen TV dinners, listening to the latest bad news delivered in sonorous tones by Huntley and Brinkley, or by Walter Cronkite. Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony now conjured up images of horrors fresh from the new war in Vietnam, already showing up on prime time news programs. Fathers, veterans of another war, would linger over one more martini, praying that their sons wouldn’t be called on to do what they had once had to do in their own youths.

Capitol Mall was nearly empty. A few happy tourists wandered past monuments, pointing and snapping camera shutters, but even they were looking at their watches, thinking that a nice restaurant sounded appealing. Less than two weeks ago, the Mall had been thronged with thousands of angry people marching in protest of whatever had been the cause of the day – racism and bigotry? Vietnam? This was a time of turmoil and upheaval for a great country that had been built and strengthened on controversy. Tonight, though, the Mall was peaceful and serene.

Inside the Capitol building, late meetings were breaking up. Secretaries were scurrying to finish last minute typing and deliver any waiting messages. Men in dark pinstripe suits were shaking hands and parting ways, some making promises that would be difficult to keep in the troubling days ahead.

A Senate subcommittee hearing was underway in one of the meeting rooms. A ruggedly handsome man, middle-aged and with a deeply lined face, sat in an oversized office chair, one in a line of similar chairs aligned at a long table facing the panel of Senators. All the chairs were occupied by distinguished men and women who were paying close attention to the proceedings. A large silver microphone positioned on the table in front of him amplified his words as he gave testimony. His voice, firm and confident, and his answers, short and to the point, proved that he was not a waster of words. He spoke with authority and the Congressmen listened, occasionally asking him to clarify a point.

“So what you’re saying, Mr. Saunders,” the Republican senator from New York interrupted, “is that we don’t even know how many of these men may be living here in our country. They may be our neighbors, co-workers, people we associate with every day.”

“Yes, sir,” replied the attorney. “After the war, many high-ranking officers of the German military were able to slip undetected into this country by lying on their applications for entry. Many of the applications were not checked closely because of the chaos at that time.”

“What is your firm doing about the problem?” asked another senator.

“We‘re concerned only with those who actively participated in war crimes, or knew about criminal activity during the war but didn’t try to stop it. The man we’re focused on right now was a member of the SS, and eyewitnesses tell us that he was responsible for the massacre of Polish Jews in a small town just inside the Polish border, one of the first to be overrun by the Nazis. A mass grave with over 100 bodies was found after the war, and we’ve tracked the commander of the unit that carried out the killings. He works in Detroit now, at one of the automobile plants. He keeps to himself, and not even his co-workers or neighbors know that he was in the war. They think he was a refugee and escaped Germany before the war started.”

“Tell us a little about how you track these men, Mr. Saunders,” another senator asked.

“We have an investigator on retainer who helps with the research. He’s bilingual and translates documents for us, too. We’re in constant contact with the governments of many European countries, and we receive documents and updates from them. We personally confirm any reported sightings in this country and take testimony and depositions from witnesses. We cross-reference individuals against photographs taken of them in uniform or during the war; we have hand-writing and forensic experts at our disposal. When we’ve put together enough information to prove the identity of a war criminal, we obtain a warrant for his arrest from the Federal government.”

“Thank you, sir,” the head of the subcommittee said. He glanced at his watch. “Gentlemen, I think it’s time to adjourn for the weekend. Mr. Saunders, you are free to return to your home. I think we’ve gotten all the answers we need from you for now.”

“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.” The attorney gathered his papers and placed them into his briefcase, then stood and left the room.

“Fine presentation, Saunders, very nice,” said a high-ranking elderly senator as he shook the hand of the younger man in the hallway. “Care to go out tonight? I can show you where the action is.”

“Thank you just the same, Senator, but I have some things I have to take care of.”

“Oh, come now, good looking young fella like you, well-dressed, lots of money. You could have your pick of the women, and I know where to find them. Come on, you’ll enjoy it.”

The attorney winced as the gray-haired senator squeezed his hand just a little too firmly. “Another time, sir. Thank you.” He pulled his hand away.

“Suit yourself, then. Don’t say I didn’t invite you! You’ll probably just hole yourself up in some hotel room somewhere and be bored! Well, if that happens, just mosey over to the “O” Club on 18^th St. NW. That’s where all the movers and shakers end up at one time or another.”

“I’ll do that, Senator. Enjoy yourself. Good night.”

The senator hurried out the east door and hailed a taxi. The younger man, rubbing his hand on his pants leg, turned the other direction. He exited out the west doors into the glorious sunset. Standing at the top of the wide stairs, he took a deep cleansing breath and exhaled slowly. Truth be told, he hated politics, hated all that went with the concept – all the backslapping and back stabbing, all the glad handing and handouts. What had happened to this country? Everyone was going crazy, he thought. Riots, free love, welfare and drugs. Whatever happened to people giving back? President Kennedy had been right when he’d said, “Ask not what your country can do for you. Ask, rather, what you can do for your country.” He’d been a man before his time, and gone too soon.

He slowly descended the steps, savoring the peacefulness of the Mall. Fresh green grass, like a thick carpet, stretched away to the Washington Monument, silhouetted against the setting sun. He bought a copy of the evening Washington Star from a vendor and strolled over to a bench near the reflecting pool.

‘Good place for me this evening,’ he thought. ‘Reflecting by the pool.’ He grinned at the lame joke, settling himself into a corner of the bench and propping his briefcase next to his legs. He opened the newspaper and saw that Edward R. Murrow’s funeral had brought out several famous dignitaries. How well he remembered the signature openings and sign-offs, “This…is London,” and “Good night and good luck.” Those phrases had beckoned through the radio to many a household in the bleak days of WWII, when people grasped for any news of “their boys” fighting at the front.

And now there was a new war, highlighted on the front page. The Marines had invaded Vietnam nearly two months ago and casualties were already mounting. Did mankind never learn? Would tyranny always raise its ugly head?

He sighed and folded the paper, placing it on the bench next to him. Stretching his long legs out, he put his hands behind his head and leaned back. He closed his eyes and let a feeling of satisfaction wash over him. His law firm, of which he was a senior partner, had delegated him to testify in front of the Senate subcommittee on Nazi war crimes, and he had given a good presentation. He and his partners had put a lot of effort into tracking down the man that he’d described in his testimony. After the hearing today, he was sure his firm would receive the green light to go ahead with the legal proceedings.

He raked his fingers through his perfectly cut blond-going-to-gray hair and sighed. He should be content. But he wouldn’t be as long as he had the energy to legally fight the enemy that he had fought in battle so long ago. He still lay awake some nights reliving the tragedies that he’d seen, picturing every one of the boys in his command that had died. The ghosts of the past still haunted him, although he never talked about those times with anyone. When he’d first come home from the war, and would wake up screaming in the night, or would break out in a cold sweat at the sound of fireworks or slammed doors, those around him would look at him with eyes full of pity. He couldn’t tolerate that. He didn’t want or need pity. So he fought back in the only way he knew how – by studying, attaining a law degree and going after the monsters that were responsible for the horrors that had befallen so many.

The tap-tap-tap of delicate high-heeled footsteps came toward him from the direction of the Capitol Building. ‘Some secretary going home late,’ he thought as the steps got closer. He didn’t bother to open his eyes until the steps stopped near him. A soft voice whispering, “Sahjent?” in a French accent caught him by surprise, and he opened one eye to peer up at the speaker. She was a stylish lady, slim and attractive, with black hair and blacker eyes. Her dress was well-cut and suited her figure, accenting what needed to be accented, hiding what needed to be hidden. Which wasn’t much, in his opinion.

And she was staring at him.

“Excuse me, did you say something to me?” he asked, rising from the bench and looking around for anyone else to whom she may have been speaking.

“Sahjent? I knew it was you, from the moment I saw you leave the building. Oh, how I’ve prayed to meet you again after all these years, to thank you.” She held her hand out to him. “You have no idea what your small gesture meant to me when I needed it the most,” she said.

“I’m sorry, do I know you, ma’am?” the attorney asked in some confusion.

She slowly dropped her hand back to her side. “Oh, dear. You don’t remember me. But how could you? It was such an insignificant thing for you, and so long ago. What was life-changing for me was nothing more than a polite gesture by you. I should have realized that.” Tears filled her eyes and threatened to spill over onto her pale cheeks. “In any case, thank you for that memory. I’m sorry to have disturbed you.” She turned to walk away.

Impulsively, the attorney reached out and touched her arm. “Please, don’t go. Sit here and tell me what this is about.”

She perched on the edge of the bench, nervously clutching her handbag and looking for all the world like a sparrow ready to take flight at the first alarm.

“I’m Charles Saunders…Chip…but you probably already know that,” grinned the man, holding out his hand to her. “And I’m not a sergeant anymore. I’m not even in the Army. I’m a lawyer now. And you are, Miss…?”

“Mrs.,” she said, gravely shaking his hand. “Mrs. Cecile Brouier Jones.” Her French accent was soft but unmistakable.

“Jones?”

“I’m a widow. My husband was killed in the war. We weren’t married long. But that’s all part of the story. Are you sure you have time? It’s a long story. I haven’t liked to talk about it to anyone, but I’ve never forgotten any of it.” She shivered in the cool evening air.

“Here, take my jacket,” said the attorney as he slipped off his suit coat and placed it over her shoulders. “Maybe we should find someplace a little warmer to talk. Would you like a drink? Or maybe a bite to eat?”

She sat immobile, clutching at the lapels of the jacket. Slowly, she turned her head and looked him full in the face. She studied his blue eyes for a long moment before saying, “You have no idea, do you? You don’t remember anything about me.”

“No, I’m afraid not. But you can tell me over some food. It’s been a long day and I haven’t eaten since early this morning. I know a nice little bistro near here if you’re up for walking.”

“Yes, of course. But…you don’t mind?”

“No, now you’ve got me curious. You’ll have to tell me what I did that so changed your life, because I can’t imagine what I could have done that was so remarkable.” He chuckled as he tucked his newspaper into the briefcase and stood. “I remember a lot about the war, mostly the ugliness of it, the killing and destruction, the dysentery and lice, and especially the bad food. It would be nice to remember something good that came out of it.”

She stood and handed him his jacket. “I don’t really need this. I’m not cold, truly. It was the shock of seeing you again after all these years.”

“Do you work here?”

“No, but I sit in on Senate hearings when they deal with topics of concern to me. Let’s just say I have a…vested interest…in the Senate committee on Nazi war crimes.”

They strolled the few blocks to a secluded little café, chatting about the weather and the state of the country. As he held the door open for her, the inviting scents of spice and yeast wafted around them.

“This is one of my favorite places in the city,” he said as he held her chair. “I try to come here at least once every time business brings me to the Capitol. Sure beats Army chow.”

“I haven’t had the pleasure, but it smells wonderful,” she agreed. “And the name, so charming. Ragout Lievre. Is that what they serve here? I haven’t had a good rabbit stew since I left France.”

The attorney chuckled. “Their rabbit stew is delicious, but I prefer the venison. I tried to get the recipe from the owner, but he’s not giving it up. Says it’s a recipe that’s been passed down in his family for generations, from the old country, and it’ll go to the grave with him. Speaking of the owner…”

A wizened little man in a pristine white apron approached their table. “Monsieur Saunders, how nice to see you again,” he said as he pumped the attorney’s hand. “And this lovely lady? What a vision you are for a poor old man such as me. You are welcome in my café, and may I recommend the special of the day?”

“Jacques, you old rogue! How are you? How’s the family? It’s good to see you again,” said the attorney. “This is Mrs. Cecile Brouier Jones.”

“Not…THE Cecile of Cecile’s Paris Creations? I am indeed honored!” said the old man as he bowed and kissed her hand. “Please let me get you something to drink!”

Saunders’ puzzled look caused Cecile to grin. “Yes, Sahjent, in spite of my many misfortunes, I managed to make something of myself. You needn’t be so surprised!”

“I had no idea I was in the company of such a famous lady. Maybe I should let you buy ME dinner.” Laugh lines crinkled the corners of the attorney’s eyes.

Jacques returned with a bottle of wine and two stemmed goblets, which he set upright on the table. “Wine for a pretty lady?” he asked, showing her the label. Something uncomfortable flashed in her eyes, but she nodded and smiled, and the look was gone.

“Yes, that’s a lovely vintage. Thank you.”

Jacques poured the wine as he described the special of the day. “A mild venison, tender and succulent, stewed to perfection in its own gravy with new young potatoes, peas and carrots, onions for zest, and my own special blend of spices, accompanied by thick slabs of hot crusty buttered bread to sop up the gravy. Yes?”

“Yes, yes, a thousand times yes! And the recipe!” laughed Saunders.

“Ah, non, Monsieur! The stew, yes, the recipe, no! When I am on my deathbed, I maybe give it to you…but not until then. I don’t want you to open your own café with my recipe!” Jacques’ hearty chuckle trailed him as he left the table to see to their order.

Saunders and Cecile sipped at the wine for a moment before Saunders cleared his throat and said, “So…what about that story?”

Cecile set her glass done on the table, but continued to hold the stem, tipping the glass and twirling the velvety crimson liquid. “It was 1944,” she began. “I was young, only nineteen…” She paused, and her eyes took on a faraway look.

“We were all young,” Saunders murmured. “But we didn’t stay that way for long. We couldn’t and survive.”

“Yes, that’s true, isn’t it?” Cecile replied. “I lived a lifetime during that one year.” She took a sip of the wine, collecting her thoughts. “Nineteen…so young, and so much responsibility. My parents were killed that year in a bombing raid. They left me alone to raise my fourteen-year-old sister. They were dead, and I was angry with them for leaving us. But what could I do?

“They’d left a little money, and the apartment was paid for, so my sister was able to stay in school. I had already graduated, so I took a job in a dressmaker’s shop to support us. My mother had taught me to sew as a child, and after awhile, the dressmaker showed me how to design the dresses. My sister would come to the shop after school to help with little things like cutting out fabric and sweeping the floors.”

She took another sip of wine as she remembered that summer.

*****1944*****

The dressmaker’s shop was tucked between a fleuriste and a boulangerie, the brick facades all running together, divided only by the displays in the large glass windows fronting each shop. Several mannequins, all attired in original creations made by the couturiere, who favored sleek rayon dresses and silk ladies’ suits, graced the window of the dressmaker. Favored customers were allowed to view the special mannequins kept in the back, the ones that modeled the satin and lace undergarments worn by the privileged class.

A yeasty aroma from one side and a floral fragrance from the other danced in through the open front door, swirling in on the fresh breeze, stirring the heat that settled under the slate roof. Cecile was bent over a high table, trying to match the print as she pinned a paper pattern to the fabric. Glass-headed pins jutted at odd angles from her mouth as she held them between her teeth, carefully extracting one after another and jabbing them into the fabric to hold the pattern down. She smoothed the paper to remove imaginary wrinkles, working along the edges of the paper until the piece was secured.

Mme. Auberge, a plump gray-haired woman of indeterminate age, owner of the shop, sat at a foot-pedal sewing machine, stitching bright flower-print fabric into a morning jacket for an expectant mother. Her feet kept rhythm to an artless tune that she was humming. Cecile never heard her sing the words; perhaps she’d forgotten them, if she’d ever known them. But the seamstress loved to hum along with the machine. Cecile imagined that the metallic clicks and clacks were an orchestra accompanying her boss’s operatic aria.

As Mme. Auberge finished her seam, she snipped the threads and turned the garment to the right side. “Marcelle,” she called to a young girl sweeping the floor. “When you’re done there, will you press this? I’m going to the boulangerie to get some baguettes for our lunch.” She tossed the jacket onto the table and unfolded herself from behind the sewing machine. She reached behind the counter and extracted some coins from her handbag. “I’ll be back in a few minutes,” she called as she sailed out the door.

Cecile knew that the “few minutes” could run into an hour. Mme. Auberge, a widow for some years, was infatuated with the baker next door, who had similar feelings for her but was reluctant to act on those feelings during this time of war and occupation. They contented themselves with stealing a few moments between customers to bill and coo at one another.

Finished pinning the pattern down, Cecile began to cut around the edges of the paper. A shadow darkened the door and she looked up to see a German officer standing before her. The Germans had entered the town a week earlier, occupying it without firing a shot. They had taken over command of the town, reducing the mayor to a figurehead. The police chief was firmly in their pocket – he knew on which side his bread was buttered. If the Americans had come first, he’d have joined their cause just as easily. He was an amoral man, interested only in how a situation would profit him or make his life more comfortable.

Life had not changed much since the occupation – food was just as scarce, work still had to be done, resources were still rationed. The Germans, although being the occupiers, carried on as though they were on holiday in this small town, drinking in the cafes, shopping in the markets, swimming in the town’s river. They didn’t interact much with the townsfolk, who generally tried to make themselves scarce. So Cecile was surprised to see a high-ranking German officer in the shop.

“May…may I help you, Monsieur?” she stammered, putting the scissors down on the cutting table.

The officer slowly peeled his gray gloves off, deliberately, one finger at a time, and then slapped them against his thigh. He swept his high-brimmed hat off and bowed from the waist, clicking his heels together. “Mademoiselle, I am Oberst Mueller, in command of the garrison occupying this city. What a charming a shop. Do you own it?”

“No, sir, the owner just stepped out. She’ll be back in a few minutes, or if you want to see her now, you can find her in the bakery next door.”

“But you are a dressmaker, yes?”

Cecile nodded. “Yes, I make dresses, as you can see.” She gestured at the fabric she’d been cutting. “Do you wish to order a dress?”

“My lovely daughter has asked for a French frock. I would like one made so I may send it to her for her birthday.”

“Certainly, sir. Do you know her size?” Cecile got an order book and pencil and prepared to write the girl’s measurements.

The officer scratched his head. “Her size?” he asked in some confusion. “I suppose that would be important to know.” He looked around the shop, and his glance landed on Marcelle, who had stopped sweeping when he entered, and was now leaning on the broom and openly staring at him. “Oh ho!” he said. “You are a bold one, aren’t you! Come here, girl!” He gestured for Marcelle to come forward. She dropped her eyes, reddening with embarrassment, and started sweeping again.

“Girl! I said to come here!” the officer barked. He took two steps across the room and grabbed the frightened girl by the arm, dragging her back to stand with him in front of Cecile at the cutting table. “This sylph is the same size as my daughter,” he told Cecile. “Make the dress to fit this one, and it will fit the other.”

He looked thoughtful for a moment, then raised a hand and stroked Marcelle’s cheek. “You are a pretty one,” he murmured softly as he touched her hair.

“Marcelle!” Cecile’s sharp voice caused the officer to drop his hand in surprise. “Go to the back room and finish straightening up like I told you to! Go! Now!”

The young girl whirled and fled like a frightened rabbit, slamming the door to the back room behind her.

“Why, I think you are jealous! But you have nothing to worry about – you are quite desirable also.” The officer smirked at Cecile.

“I am not jealous of my sister, sir. Merely protective. She is just a child. Now…do you wish to order a dress or not?” Cecile heard a sudden steel in her voice that until that moment she had been unaware she possessed.

**********

Jacques set steaming bowls of stew on the table. “I hope I’m not interrupting anything,” he said, worry etching his face.

Cecile looked up from her wine glass, where her gaze had been fixed. “No, it’s all right. We were just talking.” Her hands shook as she tucked them under the table and out of sight.

Saunders eyed her closely after Jacques left. “You don’t have to go on, you know. We can eat our meal and leave if you’d rather.”

She picked up her fork and toyed with the stew. “No, I’d rather tell the story and get it over. It’s been buried for so long, I need to rid myself of it. I’ll be all right.”

“If you’re sure.” The attorney forked a chunk of venison into his mouth and chewed, watching Cecile. “You must have been very frightened, for yourself and your sister. He sounds like a cruel man.”

“Oh, Sahjent, you don’t know half of it. For days, he would come to the shop, supposedly to check on progress of the dress for his daughter, but always…always looking for my sister. I would shut her in the back room and tell her not to make a sound, and then I would tell him that she wasn’t there. She was visiting friends, or she wasn’t well, always I had to make an excuse. Mme. Auberge – she was sympathetic, but what could she do? I rushed to finish the dress, but still he came to the shop.

“Cruel?” She gave a guttural laugh. “One day he gave me an ultimatum. Either I would be his mistress, or my sister would. He left the choice to me.”

“What did you do?” Saunders asked.

“What could I do? I had to protect my sister. I couldn’t let that monster have her. So, against everything I felt and wanted, I did what he asked. But I, too, had conditions.”

*****1944*****

Gray clouds had blocked the sun, and a chill breeze wound through the leaves of the lime and plane trees. Oberst Mueller finally had his answer, and was anticipating the evening. He’d rather have had the young one, but the older one was beautiful too and would do. Perhaps later he could have them both. But that would be later.

He splashed some heavily-perfumed aftershave on his cheeks – “Bah, the damned French and their flowery scents. Everyone smells like a girl!” – and buttoned his shirt. He’d made a deal with the best laundry in town – clean, starch and press his clothes or be shot. His shirts were now bleached and starched to perfection. Fear, especially fear of death, was a powerful motivator.

The girl had not been very cooperative, but when he had threatened her sister, she finally gave in. She refused to meet him publically, though, and said she’d only see him at her apartment. Well, he could manage that. Before long, he’d have her out with him at the parties that his unit was famous for, he was sure.

As he stepped outside, soft, fat drops of rain pattered down, marring the mirror polish on his boots. Cursing, he slid into the staff car and gave his driver the address. The girl would pay for this, he swore. He was a man of vindictive cruelty and given to rages. He was not one to suppress his desires, base or otherwise. What he wanted, he was given, or he took. Tonight he planned to take.

Hitler’s social upheaval had been his saving grace. For the first time in his admittedly mediocre life, he had been given a position of authority, and he was exploiting that authority in every way. Even poorly educated, convicted of embezzlement and fraud and having a prison record, he had the ability to sense a foe’s weakness and then to exploit it, which he did regularly and with great enthusiasm.

He prided himself on his military bearing, although prior to the war, he’d never considered a military career. He was in his early 40’s. His voice was cutting, his eyes a piercing blue. Rimless spectacles magnified his eyes; his complexion turned ruddy when he was angered. He displayed a worthless dagger-and-wreath bronze medal on his chest, along with an unearned Russian campaign medal. He’d left behind a mousy wife to whom he’d been married since their teenaged years, and two children, a 13-year-old daughter who had inherited his sense of entitlement and haughtiness, and a 2-year-old son who was currently benefitting from his father’s absence in that he didn’t have to suffer the daily beatings that his father thought would shape his moral fiber and turn him into a man of whom the Fuehrer would be proud.

Cecile made Marcelle promise not to come out of her room for any reason tonight until Cecile came to get her. To make sure that the girl stayed out of harm’s way, Cecile locked the bedroom door and pocketed the key. “It’s for your own good,” she said when Marcelle protested that she wasn’t a child and didn’t need to be locked in. “I don’t want the Oberst to get any ideas. If he can’t see you, he may forget you.”

The older girl was dressed in one of her oldest and plainest dresses. She’d made no attempt to enhance her natural beauty with cosmetics or perfume, and had left her long black hair pulled back and tied with a simple band. No jewelry adorned her throat or wrists, no rings graced her fingers, no earrings dangled from her dainty earlobes. In spite of her best efforts, she unconsciously exuded an elegance and charm that could not be hidden.

She answered the door to the officer’s officious knocking, stepping back to let him pass. He carried a bottle of wine, which he thrust at her with the curt greeting, “Du vin pour la belle dame?"

**********

“He always brought a bottle of wine, every time he came to visit, and he always asked the same question, ‘Du vin pour la belle dame?’ Sometimes he asked it in German, ‘Wein für eine schöne Dame?’ but I knew what he meant,” Cecile said. “That first night, he tried to get me drunk. He’d pour glass after glass of the wine, but every time he turned his back, I’d dump mine into the plant nearby. He became quite tipsy, but I kept my wits.

“The more intoxicated he became, the meaner he was, until finally he was ripping my clothes and beating me.” Cecile’s voice dropped. “At the end, he…he…” She stopped talking. Her head was bowed, and Saunders saw a tear roll down her cheek and fall onto her untasted dinner. He sensed what she was trying to say, and wondered if she’d have the courage to name the vile deed. This was a woman who had been deeply wounded, and his instinct was to try to spare her more pain. But he also knew that with the telling of the story, she was cleansing her soul.

“Cecile.” His voice was quiet, even though they were alone in the room. She may not have heard him; she gave no indication that she had. She was lost in the memory. “Cecile,” he said a little louder. She flinched, and with a long sigh, almost a sob, let out the breath that she’d been holding.

“Yes, Sahjent.” She looked at him with eyes brimming. “I don’t know how to say it. It was so horrible, what he did to me. So horrible. How could he do that to me? How could any man do that?”

“You don’t have to tell me any more of what happened, Cecile.”

“But I do. You have to understand about what he did so you will know why I’ve remembered you for all these years.”

Now it was Saunders’ turn to be silent. He was seeing through her eyes, seeing the contrast that she saw between the German and himself. He watched her as she gained control of herself again, and when she was ready, he nodded.

“He…raped me, Sahjent. That’s the first time I’ve said it…it’s too hard to talk about, but you have to know. That was the first of many times in the next weeks, and he left me so bruised from the beating that I could hardly catch my breath. I tried not to let him know how badly he’d hurt me – I didn’t cry out because I didn’t want to frighten Marcelle. That seemed to enrage him even more. He struck me…over and over…until I was nearly unconscious. He kept saying something about his boots and the rain. He must have finally let himself out because I don’t remember him leaving.”

Cecile paused and took a shaky breath, dabbing at the tears in her eyes. “I haven’t thought about that night for a very long time, Sahjent. When Jacques said, ‘Wine for a pretty lady?’ just now, that brought it all back.”

She took a sip from her wineglass and sighed. “Speaking of wine, I believe I could use another glass.”

“Of course,” Saunders said as he poured the burgundy into her wineglass.

She took a bite of the stew, savoring it for long seconds before swallowing. “Ahhh,” she nodded. “Perfection! You were right about the venison stew. Perhaps I can persuade him to give us the recipe!”

The attorney chuckled. “You can try. Maybe you’ll have better luck than I did. You’re prettier, anyway!”

“Ah, Sahjent, you do say the sweetest things!” Cecile smiled, and the sadness in her eyes fled.

He reached over and touched her hand. “Better?”

She nodded. “Yes, I can continue now.”

*****1944*****

“Cecile, Cecile, let me out!”

Cecile was finally awakened by Marcelle’s cries. She stumbled to the bedroom door, holding on to furniture or supporting herself against the wall to keep from falling. Her head spun and ached, her eyes were swollen nearly shut. She couldn’t hear from one ear, and a thin track of blood had dried on her face where it had run down from the ear. Her body was a mass of welts and bruises. Her involuntary moan brought another panicked cry from Marcelle.

“Cecile! Are you all right? CECILE!” The doorknob rattled, and Cecile fumbled with the key, trying to focus enough to get it into the lock and turn it. Then she sank to the floor in a heap, grasping the fragments of clothing that still clung to her.

“Mon Dieu, Cecile! What happened?” Marcelle gasped when she saw her sister. But Cecile didn’t hear her – she was unconscious.

Hours later – or was it days? Cecile couldn’t know – she awoke to the sensation of cool water trickling down her throat. She tried to open her eyes, but they were so swollen that she could only see through tiny slits. She choked on the drops of water and a painful coughing spasm racked her bruised body. Finally, exhausted, she sank back against the soft pillows which had been placed under her head.

“Cecile, it’s all right. Try to relax.” The kind voice of her elderly neighbor soothed her as she drifted in a dream-like world. Waking was too painful; sleeping brought nightmares. She heard Marcelle’s voice as from a great distance.

“I didn’t know what to do,” sobbed Marcelle. “I didn’t know who to call.”

“You did right, girl. Stop your crying. Your sister is hurt, but she’s not dying. A few days and she’ll be right as rain. I’ll stay as long as you need me. Dirty Bosch!”

Mme. Verdoin was an octogenarian spitfire. She and her husband lived across the hall and spent their days keeping track of the comings and goings in the apartment building. She was spritelike, tiny and energetic. Pink scalp showed through her wispy white hair, which kept escaping the loose bun at the back of her head. When she was excited, she’d pull at the tendrils, loosening them even further. And right now she was excited.

“When Cecile awakens, we will have a talk. This cannot happen again. If we need to, we will give you all the money we have so you can leave this town.”

“But where will we go? We have no relatives, we know no one else,” Marcelle hiccupped.

“All in due time, girl, all in due time.”

The next day, Cecile’s swelling and bruises had gone down enough for her to sit up in the bed. Mme. Verdoin had brought her a bowl of soup and she was cautiously sipping it. “Thank you for helping us, Mme. Verdoin. I don’t know what would have happened without you here.”

“Bah, that’s what I’m good for, helping the neighbors. Now, do you feel like talking about it?”

“Yes, Ma’am.” Cecile struggled to sit higher in the bed. Then she told Mme. Verdoin of the “deal” she’d been forced to make.

“Oh, dear, I thought it might be something like that. Well, we can’t have that happening again. My husband and I discussed this last night. We are old and have no use for money anymore except to buy food. We want you to take what little we have and use it to take your sister from this town and find a new life.”

Tears filled Cecile’s eyes. “You’re a good neighbor and a good friend,” she whispered, clutching the old lady’s gnarled hand. “But I wouldn’t know where to go. We have no relatives, we know no one outside this town. We wouldn’t even know which direction to go. Two women alone on the road – think what would happen if the Bosch stopped us.”

“But you must go. You cannot allow this animal to do this to you again.” Mme. Verdoin pulled at a tendril of hair.

“Yes, I know. I will make some plans, but I will need to talk to some people first. People who might know where we can go. People that we can trust not to tell the Bosch of our plans. You hold onto your money for now, and when I can figure out what to do, I’ll tell you. It’s the best we can do for right now.”

“Perhaps you are right. We must make plans. We cannot rush into this. But I fear for your life. You cannot take this punishment – no person can, and still keep body and spirit together. And what of your sister?”

“I will ask this one favor of you, Mme. Verdoin. You can refuse if you wish, but it would help me a great deal.”

“I will refuse you nothing, Cecile. Whatever you need, you feel free to ask!” Mme. Verdoin squeezed Cecile’s hand.

“If this man ever comes back, would you keep Marcelle in your apartment until he leaves? I don’t fear for myself as much as I fear for her!” Tears filled Cecile’s eyes.

“Yes, of course, child. At least we can do that for you. Now you rest and gain your strength back. I’ll come over later to see how you are doing.”

Days passed and Cecile’s bruises healed. She returned to work at the boutique, where Mme. Auberge clucked over her and treated her to delicate pastries. Every day, she’d flinch whenever a customer would open the door, dreading the time when the Oberst would return. Because she knew he would.

**********

“Before you ask, Sahjent, yes. He did come back. Again and again.” Cecile spoke softly. Saunders had finished his stew and pushed his plate away, but Jacques, seeing Cecile’s intensity, didn’t disturb them. “As the weeks wore on,” she continued, “he would come in to the shop once, twice, sometimes more every week. I would shoo Marcelle to the back room, but he always caught a glimpse of her and would comment on her loveliness. He would come to see me in the apartment, but he would always tell me when he was coming over, so I could send Marcelle to the Verdoin’s apartment. He would ask about her, and I would tell him – truthfully – that she was out.

“Every time he came to see me, he’d bring me a present – sometimes chocolate or cigarettes, stockings. Once he brought me a beautiful silk scarf, but I couldn’t bear to look at it. Everything that he brought me, every little trinket or square of chocolate, I sold. I didn’t want any part of him, even as he continued to rape and beat me. He had convinced himself that I enjoyed him as much as he enjoyed me, and that his little beatings were for my own good. The first time was the worst – after that, he made sure not to strike me in the face. He didn’t want to mar my beauty, he said.

“All the money that I got from selling his ‘gifts’ went toward my escape fund. As kind as the Verdoins were, I knew they had very little money. No one had much in those days anyway. But though they knew the Oberst kept seeing me, they also knew I was working on a plan to escape with Marcelle.”

She paused and took a deep breath. Her stew had grown cold on her plate, but she didn’t seem to notice or care. She shivered and rubbed her arms. Immediately, Jacques was at the table with a carafe of hot coffee and two cups.

“Mme. Cecile, some hot coffee. You are distressed. I hope it was not the food?” His anxious look took in her untouched dinner.

“No, Jacques, the stew was excellent. I just don’t have much appetite right at the moment. But the coffee is lovely, thank you.”

“More wine for the pretty lady?”

A wry smile played on Cecile’s lips. “No, thank you. I’ve had enough wine for tonight. I don’t want to have a headache tomorrow, although it was an excellent vintage.”

“Dessert?”

“Maybe later, Jacques. We’ll just take the coffee for now, thanks,” Saunders said.

Jacques cleared the table of the remnants of the meal, and carried the dishes to the kitchen. Saunders took a sip of the dark brew, watching as Cecile poured cream into hers. She stirred the mixture, but didn’t drink. Instead, she wrapped her fingers around the cup, trying to absorb the warmth into her icy hands.

She saw the concern in Saunders’s eyes and smiled at him. “It’s all right, Sahjent. The story is nearly over. I’m almost to the part where I met you!”

He couldn’t match her smile. His face was grim as he saw in his mind what she had gone through. It was not a unique story – he’d heard similar ones too often to remember. He’d witnessed such atrocities, and worse, firsthand. But this reminded him of why he had chosen the profession that he now practiced.

“Sahjent, it was a long time ago. I survived and grew stronger because of it. Do you want to hear the rest of the story?”

“Yes, of course. I was trying to imagine how you must have felt.”

She shook her head. “Do not try to imagine, Sahjent. It will make you angry and crazy and there is nothing you can do about it.”

She took a sip of the coffee. “One day, I had to go out, and I left Marcelle there alone. I sent her over to the Verdoins, just in case.”

*****1944*****

Autumn’s cool days and frosty nights had turned the leaves to glorious colors. Warm sunrays cast stained-glass motes through the leaves as they floated down to rest on faded grass. Her bicycle tires flared the freshly fallen leaves back into the air to float down for one final time before their ultimate demise into crunchy mulch.

The whole town knew that she was sleeping with a Bosch, although they didn’t know the circumstances. They assumed that there was a mutual attraction, and so avoided her whenever possible. No one would take a chance that she wouldn’t inform on them. Even when she went to the market, she was frequently spit on or cursed. In the beginning, she’d tried to explain herself, but as time went on, she withdrew from the townsfolk and only ventured out to work and to the market, and only then when absolutely necessary. She had tried to make contact with the Resistance, but no one trusted her enough to meet with her.

At the market, she quickly picked out a few limp vegetables for their dinner. The shopkeepers would not let her see the good produce, but only allowed her the leftovers from the previous day. At least Mme. Auberge was able to get her some fresh bread every day, although she was sure that the baker didn’t know he was supplying his loaves to someone generally viewed as a collaboratrice.

Packing her meager purchases into the basket on her bicycle, she wheeled toward home. As she approached her building, a German staff car rounded the corner going in the opposite direction. Her heart jumped into her throat. She threw the bicycle to the ground, and forgetting the groceries, raced into the building.

A few people had gathered in the hall, but when they saw her run through the door, they scurried back into their apartments and slammed their doors. It was none of their business, and they resented her for bringing the Bosch to their building. Fearing the worst, she vaulted up the stairs two at a time, and skidded to a halt outside the open door of the Verdoins’ apartment. Cordite clung to the air and choked her as she gasped, trying to catch her breath. A sense of dread clutched her chest and she peered around the corner.

The Oberst had never arrived unannounced before. No one was expecting him. He had knocked on Cecile’s door, and when there was no answer, had pounded on the door until it splintered. He was infuriated that Cecile was ignoring his summons. Monsieur Verdoin, in an unusual act of bravery, came out to the hallway to tell the Oberst that no one was home. Behind him, the Oberst caught a glimpse of Marcelle as she tried to hide in a back room.

The officer was irate. “Send that girl out here!” he shouted. “Send her out, you old fools!”

Marcelle cowered in the corner, as the elderly Verdoins tried to block his way. “Do not do this, Monsieur,” they pleaded. “She is but a child. Please, leave her alone. Leave US alone!”

A great calm fell over the German. “Have it your way,” he muttered. “I warned you.” He slowly unfastened the clasp of his holster and removed his Luger.

“No, please!” The Verdoins backed away, quaking, still shielding the girl. “Don’t do this terrible thing, please!”

Casually, he raised the pistol. “Send her out.”

Terror washed through Marcelle. She was frozen, unable to step forward, unable even to scream.

One shot rang out, then a second, and the Verdoins crumpled like lifeless dolls. Blood seeped from the tiny holes in their foreheads. Mme. Verdoin twitched once and a tendril of fuzzy white hair fell across her face. Then she was still.

Marcelle suddenly found her voice and began screaming. She screamed until she was breathless and her voice was hoarse, she screamed as she was being dragged across the hallway, and she screamed while the officer raped and beat her. She only stopped screaming when he put a bullet through her forehead too.

**********

Tears coursed down Cecile’s cheeks unnoticed by her. Saunders waited until she’d stopped talking, then silently handed her his handkerchief. She blotted at the tears and dabbed her nose.

“I’m sorry, Sahjent. I’ve never told anyone of my dear, sweet sister’s death. I didn’t realize it would be so hard.”

“Please don’t apologize, Cecile. It was a horrible thing. My family still has no idea of some of the things I was forced to see and do during the war, and I’m sure that’s true for many who lived through the atrocities. There is no need to be embarrassed or sorry.” The attorney moved his chair around the table to sit near her. He put his arm around her and she rested her head on his shoulder.

Jacques came to the table. “I am sorry to interrupt, but perhaps Madame and Monsieur would be more comfortable in my private quarters. Come, I will show you.”

He escorted them to a back room that was furnished with an overstuffed sofa and two wing-back chairs. Soft lighting turned the room into a haven from the rush of keeping a bistro running smoothly. A painting in muted watercolors depicting a scene in pre-war France graced one wall, and tall plants in terra cotta pots anchored the corners of the room. The air of sanctuary calmed Cecile as she settled herself into one of the chairs.

“Bon?” asked Jacques.

“Merci, you dear man,” answered Cecile. “This is lovely.”

“I owe you a big tip tonight, Jacques,” said Saunders. “You’ve outdone yourself.”

“It is my pleasure, my dear friend. May I bring you anything else? A glass of water, perhaps?”

“Yes, that would be nice,” said Cecile. “I still have much to tell of my story.”

*****1944*****

Cecile collapsed over her dead sister’s body. She lay there unmoving, unseeing for what seemed an eternity, moaning in anguish, cradling Marcelle’s head. Only vaguely did she register the distant rumble of artillery shells exploding in the countryside. Sorrow’s tears trickled into despair; mourning lurched into the abyss of hopelessness. She no longer had a reason to live. The Germans had taken everything from her; her heart was empty.

Gunfire rattled in the streets; windows shattered, mortar and brick were blasted into craters of dust. She slowly rose from her sister’s side and, like an automaton; she staggered out of the building. All around her the world was imploding, and she stumbled into the maelstrom knowing, hoping, that she was taking her last few breaths. She would join her sister, her parents, her dear neighbors in the great chasm called an afterlife. She prayed for an end to her suffering, prayed to a God that she no longer trusted to do what was right and just. She hoped that His attribute of mercy would still extend to her during these last few moments of her life, and that He would bring death quickly. The Germans had murdered her spirit as surely as they had murdered her sister; now she would let them murder her body, too, in their ugly barrage.

She reeled along the road, imagining her body being ripped apart, yearning for the white-hot pain that would signal her departure from this life. The sounds of battle tapered away, and still she lurched along on leaden feet. The buzz of life droned in her ears as townsfolk leaned out of glassless windows, shouting to one another and cheering the liberation. She was a ghost; she had walked through a wall of lead unscathed. Maybe she didn’t really exist. Maybe she had died in the apartment with her sister. No one seemed to notice her.

Finally, exhausted, she dropped onto a heap of rubble. She curled there, hugging herself, rubbing her arms, rocking back and forth. Tears once again seeped from eyes squeezed shut against the world, leaving muddy tracks on her cheeks, dripping onto her rumpled and stained dress. Without realizing it, she had wandered as far as the dressmaker’s shop before collapsing.

Mme. Auberge had sought refuge in the boulangerie, huddled under the pastry table with the baker during the shelling. The sturdy building had resisted the explosions, and although mortar dust sifted into the bread dough and coated the baking pans, the pair was otherwise unscathed. She uncoiled herself from what, in other circumstances, might have been a pleasant position, and cautiously stepped out the door to check on her shop.

“Oh, my dear!” she exclaimed as she saw Cecile collapsed in the debris. “Come inside, child! Are you hurt? Why are you out here? Why are you not in a safe building?” She wrapped her plump arms around the girl and pulled her up. “You are freezing! How long have you been out here? Let me make you some hot tea with lemon and honey and you’ll feel better. Where is Marcelle?”

At the sound of her sister’s name, Cecile let out a tormented cry. Then, bit by bit, word by word, she haltingly told Mme. Auberge of the atrocity that had taken place in the apartment. Mme. Auberge clucked and tutted while she brewed the tea and found a baguette. She blew the dust from the bread, and brought the tray to the girl. “Here,” she said as she poured a cup of tea. “I brought something to help you relax.” A bottle of brandy sat on the tray next to the teapot.

Cecile wrapped cold fingers around the cup and sipped the hot brew. She was still shaking, but the tears had stopped. “What will I do?” she whispered. “What will I do?”

“One day at a time, child, one day at a time. We’ll get through this, you and I together.”

The door of the shop suddenly flew open, crashing into the wall. Mme. Auberge jumped and let out a startled squawk at the angry men standing on the threshold. One pointed his finger at Cecile, who was cowering and whimpering behind the table. “There she is! We knew we’d find you here!” He stomped into the room, grabbed Cecile by the arm and yanked her from the chair. “You’re coming with us, collaboratrice! Did you think you could get away with rubbing the town’s nose in your sordid affair? Now it’s time to pay!”

He grabbed a pair of scissors from the cutting table, then pulled the frightened girl roughly toward the door. She was pale and unresisting, but Mme. Auberge was indignant.

“You cannot take her! She is not a collaboratrice! You know nothing. Don’t do this! She was forced to sleep with the German! He threatened her sister!”

The men ignored the irate woman. “This is not your business, madam, although you employed the collaboratrice, so we could take you too. Best to keep your tongue in your head if you know what’s good for you!” the leader snarled.

Mme. Auberge continued to sputter as the men dragged Cecile from the room. Outside, an enraged crowd had gathered as the men carried a sagging Cecile into their midst. Throwing her to the ground, the men tore at her clothes until only shreds of her dress clung to her, but she made little effort to cover herself. The jeers of the crowd rang in her ears, but she was strangely detached from the drama being played out with her at the center stage. She felt her hair being tugged and pulled, and heard the snick-snip of the scissors sawing through her thick locks. Shreds of black curls tumbled to the ground around her. She could hear Mme. Auberge crying and shrieking for them to stop, even as she withdrew into herself. Her eyes glazed, and the muscles in her face slackened so that she looked half-dead.

A burst of fire from a Thompson submachine gun froze the crowd in mid-taunt. Like Moses parting the Red Sea, an American soldier shouldered his way through the crowd. “What’s going on here?” he demanded. “Caje, ask them what they’re doing!”

Cecile heard a French voice with a funny accent asking the people what they were doing. No one would answer except Mme. Auberge, whose excited explanation was too fast for the American to understand.

“Slow down, Madam. Slow down so I can understand you!”

While Mme. Auberge was trying to explain, the American sergeant had finally made it to the center of the crowd. He saw Cecile lying on the ground, her hair hacked unevenly, her dress in shreds. She stared unblinking into a faraway place in her mind; she was making no attempt to defend herself from the attackers.

“Caje,” his quiet voice cut through Mme. Auberge’s shrill account. “Caje, come here.”

The scout, sensitive to the restrained urgency in Sgt. Saunders’ voice, shoved through the crowd, which was starting to disperse. They had recognized the righteous anger on the American sergeant’s face, and they slunk away like scolded dogs. The sergeant knelt next to the girl and took his jacket off to cover her. He gently touched her face, but she didn’t respond.

“Caje, talk to her. See if you can get her to look at you.”

The lean private stooped so that the girl’s face was turned toward him. He spoke softly, his gentle voice lulling her. He got no response, not even a blink.

“Sarge, the old lady was telling me what happened. The German commander that was here forced this girl into an affair, and he beat and raped her repeatedly, then killed her sister. The townspeople thought she was a collaborator, so they shunned her, and now they’re punishing her. The old lady thinks she just wants to die because her sister was killed today. Her name is Cecile.”

Saunders looked around, but the crowd was gone. Only Mme. Auberge was left, twisting her hands, nervously watching over them with concern. His eyes met Caje’s before he turned his attention back to the girl. He took her hand in his - it was as cold as death, lifeless, limp, insensate. Her eyes stared at nothing, and he couldn’t imagine what she was seeing. He spoke quietly as he squeezed her hand, “Cecile, I’m sorry for what he did to you. But you can’t give up. If you give up, then he wins. You have to fight, you have to come back. You can’t let him control you anymore. He’s gone. Don’t let him win, Cecile. Don’t let him win.”

Caje translated the sergeant’s words, and for a moment he thought that the girl hadn’t heard, that her mind was too damaged to respond. But a light flickered in her eyes, and she turned her head toward Saunders. A great sob racked her, and she sat up and clutched the sergeant. He gathered her in his arms, and her tears soaked his shirt. Gradually, her weeping lessened, and he released her into Mme. Auberge’s care.

“Doc, get her a blanket, then take her to the aid station and see what they can do for her.” Saunders shook his head and sighed. “What kind of animals would do this to innocent young women?” he muttered.

**********

Memory is a funny thing sometimes. What gets buried may never resurface; or one word or sentence can trigger the whole forgotten scene. The attorney had been caught up in Cecile’s story, watching her face as she detailed her ordeal. Until this moment, he had been a bystander to her recollection. He sensed her emotions, from the fear to the anger to the hopelessness, but none had touched him personally, other than as accessories to her story.

Then an unexpected thing happened to him. His mind transported him back twenty years to a small town in France, to the fall of 1944. He and his men had been moving nonstop for days, chasing Germans all across the countryside. He had lost a few good men and gained a few more. One beautiful autumn day, the Germans had put up a token resistance before vacating a tiny village surrounded by rolling hills.

King Company, second platoon, first squad had been the first group of Americans to enter the village, and they were greeted with cheers and flowers. Bottles of wine mysteriously appeared, and were thrust into the hands of the thirsty Americans by grateful townsfolk. Swastikas were hastily torn down to be replaced with long-hidden French flags and small American pendants.

Then an image floated into the attorney’s mind, the picture of a young girl whose spirit had been crushed beneath the weight of physical and mental torture. Her haunted eyes looked at him across the years and he remembered.

“That was you,” he murmured with sudden recognition.

“Yes, Sahjent, it was I. It was I whose life you rescued that day. I had given up; I wanted to die, or at least to forget forever. My mind was nearly gone – it was just waiting for my body to join it in the blackness of death. But you pulled me back from the edge of that deep hole with your simple gesture and words. I saw kindness in your eyes, something I hadn’t seen in a very long time. You treated me with respect and gave me back my dignity by the decent act of covering me with your jacket. I remember your words even now – ‘If you give up, then he wins.’ I couldn’t let him win. He took my sister’s life; I couldn’t let him take mine too. You made me fight, and because of you, I am who I am today.

“But that’s not the end of the story. When I got to the aid station with your medic, I collapsed again, and was unaware of my surroundings for several days. Mme. Auberge stayed with me and nursed me, along with your American medics, until I was able to care for myself again. One of the medics, Bill Jones, fell in love with me and proposed to me that week. I accepted, and we were married shortly after that. He was a gentle, sweet man who loved me even when I couldn’t love myself.

“Unfortunately, my husband was killed in action during the fighting in the Ardennes that winter, leaving me alone again – and pregnant. Mme. Auberge, always my good friend, wrote to his parents and told them about me. They were devastated by the loss of their only son, so when they found that they were to be grandparents, they brought me to America to live with them so they could help me with the baby. Using the money from Bill’s service life insurance, I enrolled in design school, and then started my own fashion line, which has done very well. My son, Bill Jr., is at university now studying finance so he can be my business partner someday.”

She fingered a delicate locket suspended on a thin gold chain around her neck. “My husband gave me this locket as a wedding present, with his picture in it. I recently added my son’s graduation picture – my husband was the same age as my son is now when he was killed.” She opened the locket and held it out so Saunders could see the faded studio shot of her husband and the newer portrait of her son. He studied the pictures for a moment, then, puzzled, looked at Cecile.

“Genetics does funny things, does it not, Sahjent? My husband was a big, raw-boned, redheaded, green-eyed Irish boy from Boston, and my son is smaller, with blond hair and blue eyes.” She paused and took a deep breath. “His grandparents know nothing of my past, except that my parents and sister were killed in the war. They have no reason to think that he is not their true grandson, and I am content to let them have that little bit of happiness. My mother-love for him is unconditional. His grandparents and I have raised him to be a kind and gentle man, just as my husband was. He will be an asset to society; I’ll make sure of that. ” She gently closed the locket. “I didn’t let him win, Sahjent. My son is an honorable man.”

Later, in the hotel room, Saunders made a long-distance phone call. “I’ll be flying in on the morning shuttle,” he spoke into the receiver. “Meet me for breakfast. I think you’ll be very interested in what I have to tell you.”

**********

Traffic from JFK was light for a Saturday morning. The sun had barely been peeping above the cherry trees when he’d left D.C., and he was early getting back to the office. He glanced at the stack of mail on his desk but decided to sort through it on Monday, when he was officially back to work. He’d lain awake for hours last night; in fact, he didn’t remember sleeping at all between thinking about Cecile’s story and catching the early flight.

He sauntered down to the corner coffee shop. He was in desperate need of some java, and he grabbed a newspaper from the kiosk outside. He waved to the waitress as he entered the eatery. “Just coffee right now, Nell, and keep it coming. I’m meeting someone.”

“Sure, Mr. Saunders. Comin’ right up.” The waitress filled the thick white ceramic mug with the strong black brew, then glanced at the attorney as he settled into a booth and snapped open the morning paper. On an impulse she scooped a Danish onto a matching plate and deposited both on the table. “Just in case you get hungry while you’re waiting,” she grinned. She had a pencil tucked behind one ear, nearly hidden in a mass of red curls. Her freckled Irish face was not beautiful by today’s standards of beauty, but her laughing eyes made her otherwise plain face glow with an inner radiance.

“You workin’ on a new case, boss? Anything interesting?” she teased. He often came into the diner in the middle of difficult searches just to exchange banter. It relieved the tension that built up in his job, and she occasionally had a good insight into the character of the person he might be looking for.

“I’ll let you know, Nell. I think I’ve got a hot one, but I need to work on it.” He took a sip of the coffee.

“Well, you know where I work in case you want my expert opinion,” the girl laughed.

The door to the diner opened, and the overhead bell jingled. Saunders glanced up from the newspaper, and then stood to greet the newcomer. “Caje, good to see you again.” He shook hands with a lean, gray-haired man.

“Sarge, how many times have I asked you to call me Paul?” smiled the newcomer.

“About as many times as I’ve told you my name isn’t ‘Sarge!’” They both laughed – it was a two-decades-old joke, forged in the blood of battle, and neither was willing to give up the brotherhood they’d established so many years ago. Paul LeMay, previously PFC Paul ‘Caje’ LeMay, was now a chief investigator for Saunders’ law firm, helping to track down the same criminals that he had tracked as a scout in WWII. He had been at loose ends after the war, having difficulty coming to grips with some of the things he’d seen and done – mostly done. Married, separated and ultimately widowed – his wife had finally gotten tired of his inability to lead what she considered a normal life. He was still occasionally plagued with flashbacks, and sometimes would awaken with a knife in his hand and no memory of how it had gotten there.

When Saunders had passed the law bar and taken a job hunting Nazis, he knew who he wanted by his side. The attorney had rescued the scout form a slow form of suicide, and now they once again worked closely together.

Caje slid into the booth across from the attorney. “Hi, Nell,” he waved at the waitress. “The usual, thanks.”

“Me, too, Nell,” Saunders motioned.

“Comin’ right up, fellas,” and the waitress set to work on two hearty breakfasts.

“So…what do you have that couldn’t wait until Monday, Sarge?”

“I had a very….interesting….meeting in D.C., Caje. An unexpected, but not unwelcome one.” The attorney proceeded to tell Caje about his dinner the night before.

Caje toyed with the salt shaker. “I vaguely remember that, but not the details. What do you want me to do?”

“I want you to come with me. I want to hunt down the animal that could do those things without a second thought. And then I want to see him brought to justice.”

“Is there justice for something like that?” the investigator asked.

“You’re right. Maybe justice isn’t the right word. Maybe I’m looking for punishment. Either one will do. Once we’ve found him, I’ll contact Cecile and have her confirm his identity to the authorities. They can take it from there. I don’t want her to have to face this man alone, but I want her to be able to put her past to rest.”

“She really got to you, didn’t she, Sarge?”

“Caje, I’ve been seeing those haunted eyes in my dreams for twenty years. Now that I know who they belong to, it’s time to do something about it.”

**********

They caught a Lufthansa flight out of LaGuardia on Monday evening. The law partners, when they’d been told of the situation, had agreed to let Saunders and LeMay take on the task of tracking Mueller. The airplane approached Orly Airport in Paris as the sun was coming up. The top of the Eiffel Tower glowed with a tiara of dawn’s light as they circled for a landing. They stowed their carryon luggage in the trunk of a taxi that shuttled them across the city to the train station.

“Remember how we couldn’t wait to come here on leave, Sarge? We thought this was the greatest place on earth. Now it’s just another dirty, congested city.”

Saunders nodded, looking out the window at the throngs of people, the debris blowing in the light breeze, the gridlocked traffic. Springtime in Paris – let the tourists have it. He’d seen enough of the city twenty years ago to satisfy his curiosity.

The train wound through the picturesque countryside. It was a local, and stopped at all the little towns along the way. The stations were rustic, some still showing the scars of the not-so-distant past. Rolling green hills, bright with new spring flowers and dotted with sheep or cattle, drifted past; fields of hay and wheat stretched for miles.

“Looks a little different in the springtime, doesn’t it?” Caje mused.

“Yeah, when no one is shooting at you, and you have a comfortable ride…” Sarge responded.

Old women wearing babushkas and carrying overloaded shopping bags boarded and left at regular intervals. Some spared them a curious look but nothing more; the rest ignored them completely, caught up in their daily duties. Young people dressed in denim and leather, playing scratchy rock ‘n’ roll music on large transistor radios, situated themselves near the exit doors, but failed to intimidate the weary housewives, who pushed past them on their way onto and off the train.

The town, when they reached it mid-morning, was a shell of its former self. The intervening years since the war had not been kind to this little corner of France. Nearly an entire generation of young people had left the tiny burg in search of fortunes elsewhere, leaving behind a village scarred by battle. Many of the visible wounds to buildings inflicted during the war remained unrepaired.

“Why are we here, Sarge? Why not go to Germany to hunt him down?” Caje asked as they strolled down what had once been the main street.

“Because I want to confirm Cecile’s story if I can. I’d like to find someone, or maybe a few people, who remember her, or at least remember the occupation. Much as I’d like to believe her, I don’t relish accusing people of the kinds of things she says he did without some independent corroboration.”

“Just like a lawyer…” Caje muttered, grinning. “Okay, where do we start?”

They talked to everyone they met that day. They questioned young mothers pushing prams in the park. They asked old men in a barber shop what they remembered of the war. They stopped in shops along the dingy streets, inquiring about the German occupation and the commander of the occupying force. In the afternoon, they solemnly strolled through the cemetery adjacent to the Catholic church, searching for names that were familiar from Cecile’s story.

There they found their first clue. A family plot, tucked into a corner of the graveyard, bore the surname of Brouier. Markers indicated that Maurice and Claudette, husband and wife, had died on the same day in 1943, while young daughter Marcelle had died in the fall of 1944. This supported that part of Cecile’s story, especially when they realized that in the plot next to the Brouiers were buried the Verdoins, whose dates of death, inscribed on the marble stone marking their resting place, were the same as Marcelle’s.

Caje knelt on one knee next to the Brouier plot and said a silent prayer, then made the sign of the cross as he rose. Saunders stood to one side, hat in hand and head bowed in his own silent tribute. As they turned to leave, a shriveled little woman tottered over to the Brouier site. She had thick gray hair pulled into a haphazard chignon. Her face was lined and pale, almost ashen with the effort of moving. Her hands fluttered, seemingly of their own accord, as though she had no control of them, and her lips puffed in and out with the work of breathing. She appeared to be chastising herself over some imagined fault. Her pale eyes were watery and sunken, and her eyesight seemed poor even with the thick glasses that perched on the tip of her nose.

She nearly collided with Caje before she realized he was standing near the graves. He caught her as she teetered on spindly legs. In a thin, reedy voice, she challenged, “Who are you?” then had to pause and cough before continuing. “What are you doing sneaking around here? You are strangers…you do not belong in this sacred church yard. Go away now!” She became more agitated, her breathing coming in short wheezy gasps as she stamped her foot and shooed at them with her hands.

Caje looked at Saunders and shrugged as he translated her words.

“Tell her we’re looking for anyone who remembers these people, Caje. Ask if she remembers a girl named Cecile Brouier.”

At the mention of Cecile’s name, the old woman gasped and clutched a hand to her chest. She looked as though she might faint, and the men were afraid that she was seriously ill. They tried to escort her to a bench nearby, but she shook their hands off, fussing at them.

“What do you know of my dear Cecile?” Her voice, though weak, demanded an answer.

“Caje, tell her that we’re trying to track down the German commander who murdered Marcelle and tortured Cecile. Ask if she remembers what happened back then.” Saunders stood protectively next to the woman lest she collapse.

Caje translated, and the old woman became animated. “Oui, oui, oui!” she exclaimed, and with hands flapping to emphasize her story, she chattered rapidly until she ran out of breath. Caje questioned her briefly, and she answered, “Mme. Auberge.”

The attorney finally persuaded her to sit, and said, “Caje, did she just say her name is Mme. Auberge?”

“Her name was Mme. Auberge during the war, Sarge. Afterwards, she married the local baker, but now she’s a widow. She was the dressmaker that Cecile worked for, the woman that cared for her in the aid station after she was beaten. She comes here every day to tend the graves of these two families,” he said, “because they have no one else to do it. She wants to know what happened to Cecile.”

Caje told the story again, of how they were tracking the criminal German commander to bring him to justice for the things he’d done to Cecile and her family. He asked a few questions, and then turned to Saunders in surprise.

“Sarge, she says she has Cecile’s diary from back then. She says that Cecile kept notes of everything that happened, just in case she was killed, so that someone would know what that man was doing to her. She says she has it wrapped in a cloth and tucked into a dresser drawer and wonders if it might help us with what we’re doing!”

“This could be the break we’re looking for, Caje. Ask if we can see the diary, if we can escort her home to get it.”

“Yes, she already said she’d give it to us, as long as we promised to get it to Cecile when all this is over.”

The walk to the old woman’s house was maddeningly slow, as she shuffled along and tried to talk at the same time. She had to stop every few steps to catch her breath, but seemed undisturbed by her physical weakness. She lived a few blocks from the church, in a low, dark house surrounded by an untamed yard. Shutters hung at haphazard angles; unrepaired bullet holes pocked the stucco finish.

She opened the sagging front door and led the men into the dimly lit front room. A sour old-woman smell assaulted them as they entered the house. A gray cat, fat and lazy, lay in a patch of feeble sunlight, but deigned to open one yellow eye to see who was intruding on his space. Satisfied that the men presented no threat, he stretched, rolled onto his other side and went back to sleep.

Mme. Auberge motioned for the men to sit while she wobbled into a back room. They could hear her rummaging around and slamming drawers, and soon she came back with a small book with a brown leather cover and a snap clasp holding it closed. Gravely, she presented the book to Saunders as though it were priceless gift, which to him it was. He unsnapped the clasp and carefully opened the book. A musty smell wafted from the pages, and he studied the cramped writing. Then he handed the book to Caje.

“What do you think? Can you read it?” he asked the investigator.

“Yes, I think I can make out most of it,” he said as he flipped through the pages. “Here is a list that she kept – it details every gift the Oberst gave her, and how much she sold it for. She’s listed chocolate, perfume, stockings, and…oh, here’s the silk scarf she mentioned…a lot of other things. She was able to get a tidy sum for everything, but it wouldn’t have taken her far even back then.”

“I wonder what happened to the money?” Saunders mused. “Ask Mme. Auberge if she knows.”

Caje turned to the old woman, who was hovering over them, an anxious look on her face. He reassured her that the diary was just what they were looking for, and asked her about the money.

Her answer was so low that Caje had to lean forward to hear the whisper. He nodded, solemn, and patted her hand. She seemed relieved that he had understood her.

“She says that Cecile asked her to use it to buy the grave markers for her sister and the Verdoins,” Caje told Saunders. “She says Cecile has never seen the markers. She hasn’t been back to the village since the day she left. There wasn’t enough money from what Cecile got for the Oberst’s ‘gifts’ to pay for both markers, but when the people in town heard her true story, they took up a collection to make up the difference. Do you want me to go back and take a picture of the markers before we leave?”

Saunders nodded, visibly moved by the answer. “Yes, it will be part of the chain of evidence that we present to the German police if we find this man,” he said. “Take a picture of Mme. Auberge, too, if she’ll let you. At least that will be something for Cecile to have when this is over. Ask her if there is a notary or judge in town so we can take her deposition, too.”

The old woman, in spite of her infirmities, was more than willing to tell the men everything that had happened so long ago. Her testimony, coupled with the diary, would be enough to convince any jury of Oberst Mueller’s guilt.

By late afternoon, the two men had collected all the evidence they had been seeking. They now knew what unit of the German infantry had been stationed there. They had found where that unit had been mobilized. They had a destination in Germany to continue their search.

Mme. Auberge directed them to the only hotel in town, a rundown establishment that had once housed the German troops. As Saunders checked in and took his key, he briefly wondered if the sticky tile floor had been cleaned at all since then. They were directed to two rooms on the upper level, facing the street. Tattered curtains hung in the grimy windows, and each room boasted a single iron bed with lumpy mattress. Saunders’ room had an armoire with a creaky door that wouldn’t stay shut without a folded square of cardboard jammed into it, a wash stand with a cracked basin, and a mirror that should have been resilvered when Napolean was emperor.

“All in all, a real palace compared to our accommodations the first time we stayed in this town, eh, Caje?” They both laughed.

Murky light from the weak bedside lamp cast dark shadows in the corners of Caje’s room. He lay on the bed that night thumbing through the diary, and soon was deeply absorbed in the drama that had been Cecile’s life. Her writing was restrained and factual, listing unadorned details, but he could sense her growing isolation and suffering as he read through the days and weeks. The repeated theme was her responsibility to her sister, to keep her safe and free from the harm that she herself was enduring. A pink glow suffused the eastern sky before he finally drifted to sleep. His dreams were disturbed by images of a young girl lying helpless and hopeless on the ground in the midst of a hostile and angry crowd.

“You look like hell,” Saunders said when Caje joined him for breakfast.

“Thanks. You don’t look so hot yourself,” the investigator retorted. “I took a long trip last night, all the way back to 1944, and it wasn’t pleasant. Now I understand your compulsion to find the man behind the diary.”

“You read through it, huh? Anything unexpected or new that I should know about?”

“No, it’s pretty much like she told you, only more so. She just hit the highlights when she was talking to you. There’s plenty more of the same kinds of things. She didn’t mince words. He raped her; he beat her; he threatened her and her sister. Over and over and over. She was ostracized by the people in town; she was spit on and cursed. And she took it all, just to protect her sister. Her overriding concern was always the safety of Marcelle. It’s no wonder that, after weeks of torment, her mind finally gave up when she found Marcelle dead. She was one strong young lady up until then.”

“So let’s get on with it. Grab some breakfast and we’ll catch the express train into Germany. We should be there in a couple of hours.”

By late afternoon, they had arrived in the town where Oberst Mueller’s unit had been formed. They found a small bed and breakfast inn and checked in. The inn was a charming 19^th century building, with timbered exterior and freshly-painted shutters. Leaded glass windows looked out over a manicured garden where the colorful blooms of spring flowers were popping open. Inside, the bright, airy building smelled of freshly baked bread. It was a testament to German efficiency in repairing war damage, and in stark contrast to the hotel that the men had visited the night before in France.

The owner registered the two men. He glanced at their passports and said, “America? What brings you to our small town? We don’t get many American visitors here since the war. Only to make trouble for us.” He had a wary face topped by sparse gray hair; a toothbrush mustache was trimmed exactly to the corners of his mouth. His pale blue eyes were the shade of ice on a deep pond in winter, and radiated as much warmth.

“We’re, ah, researchers, working on a book about the military units that were formed in this area for the war,” Saunders said.

Surprise flashed briefly on Caje’s face before he assumed a scholarly look.

“We don’t talk much about the war in this town. It’s over and finished. You’ll be wasting your time here.” The pronouncement had the sound of finality.

“Maybe so, but our editors wanted us to at least try to get some confirmation for the information we were given by certain…immigrants…to the United States.” Saunders smiled at the man. “Perhaps you can direct us to the town hall and the library tomorrow.”

“As you wish. Breakfast is from 7 to 9 in the morning. Your rooms will be cleaned by 11. If you have any laundry you would like to have done, leave it in the bag in the closet. If you set your shoes outside your door, they will be polished for you tonight. There are several fine restaurants in the area,” he handed Saunders a list, “and alcohol and pets are not permitted on the premises. Do you have any questions?”

The men both said no and were shown to their spacious and clean rooms.

“Talk about German competence and order,” Caje said over supper at one of the local restaurants. “I’ll bet he was a drill sergeant in the Army during the war! By the way, why did you tell him we’re writers?”

“I just got a feeling, when we were checking in. I suspect that there may be more than meets the eye going on with our innkeeper. Just a feeling.” Saunders’ premonitions had saved lives more often than Caje could remember, and they both trusted that sixth sense that caused the attorney’s hackles to rise at the most unexpected times. “Let’s just go with it for now and see what happens. Maybe we can flush out our Oberst through the innkeeper. And for goodness sake, while we’re here, I’m Charles, not Sarge!”

“Right, Sarge,” Caje smirked, and both men laughed.

The next morning, Frieda, the innkeeper’s wife, served them a large breakfast of boiled eggs, vegetables, German pastries and muesli. She bustled about, refilling coffee cups and water glasses, and restocking the serving bowls. She was a stout woman, with thick brown hair going to gray wound in an intricate braid around her head. She had a pleasant smile, and warm hazel eyes.

“You have a lovely inn, ma’am,” Saunders told her. “Have you lived in this town for long?”

“Thank you, sir. Yes, I’ve lived here all my life. I met Willy, my husband, when his Army unit was stationed here in the war, and we were married as soon as he got home from the fighting. We opened the inn with the money he saved from his pay during the war. Would you believe that this building was in a shambles when we bought it? My Willy is so handy; he and his friends completely remodeled it when they got home.”

“Ah. They did a wonderful job. Were those friends from his military unit?” Saunders mentioned the unit that Oberst Mueller had commanded.

“Why, yes, Mr. Saunders. You really have been doing your homework. My husband told me that you are researching for a book about the units that were stationed around here. They were brave men in my husband’s unit. They fought courageously against overwhelming American odds. They continued to fight right up until the surrender. My Willy tells some glorious stories of the heroes in his unit.”

“Brave units are led by brave men. Was your husband’s commander like that also?”

“Oh, yes, Oberst Mueller – that was his name – was one of the best, leading the men in battle, carrying them through the worst times. He came home with a chest full of medals, Willy says.”

Saunders and Caje looked at each other, and then Saunders said, “That sounds like the man we need to talk to for our research. Does he still live around here?”

“Frieda! You are neglecting your work!” The innkeeper’s voice was sharp and commanding, and his wife flinched and backed away from the table.

“Yes, Willy, I am coming, Liebschen!” She turned toward the kitchen, but not before giving the two men a slight nod.

Caje leaned over and whispered, “Did that nod mean he does live here, or was she just saying goodbye?”

“I’m not sure, but we’re going to find out,” Saunders whispered back. “Apparently Willy forgot to tell her not to talk to us!”

The innkeeper strode to their table and stood over them. “Please do not disturb my wife with these trivial matters. She is easily distracted and forgets her duties as hostess. She talks too much and works too little.” Then he turned and walked away.

“Wow, I think we hit a nerve,” Caje said.

“And I think it’s time to get down to business,” the attorney said, pushing back from the table.

Their first stop that morning was the town hall, where they asked to see records from Oberst Mueller’s military unit. The secretary spoke neither English nor French, so went in search of someone to help translate their request. A few minutes later, an officious little man stepped into the room. He was short and round, with a florid complexion and shiny bald head.

“I am the town registrar. How may I help you gentlemen?” he asked.

Saunders explained their interest in finding out about Oberst Mueller and his military unit.

“Ah. I see.” Sweat beaded the official’s forehead, and he mopped at it with a grubby white handkerchief. “Unfortunately, all of our records from that period were destroyed in a…fire…a few years ago. So we have no information. None at all. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have work to do.” He turned to leave, but Saunders’ voice stopped him.

“A fire? How convenient. When was that, Herr Registrar?” His tone belied his acceptance of the story.

“I’m sorry, I have nothing more to tell you. We have no records that you can look at. That’s all.” He scuttled out of the room before Saunders could ask him another question.

“I think we’ve been dismissed. Someone got to him before we did,” Caje said.

“I think you’re right, and we’re going to find out who.” Sarge turned on his heel and marched out the door.

“Where to now?”

“Let’s try the library. They should have old newspapers. Maybe the registrar was telling the truth about the fire and we can confirm it with news accounts. But I think he was lying. The library should have a phone book, too. We can see if Herr Mueller has a listed phone number. And we can see if someone warned them against talking to us too.”

The librarian was a young woman, tall, fresh-faced and Nordic. Her long blonde hair swung in a thick braid down her back, and her piercing blue eyes had the look of someone who can find humor in almost any situation. Her bright smile flashed her naturally straight white teeth, and she was constantly smiling.

“Everything Hitler was hoping for,” Caje whispered.

“Do you speak English?” asked the attorney.

“Yes, I speak English,” she answered their first question. “Ah, but you are the gentlemen staying at the inn. How may I help you?”

“Word gets around fast in a small town like this, doesn’t it?” Saunders said.

“Yes, there is little that is new to talk of here, so strangers become our topic of the day. I understand you are doing research. We have a lovely military section here, and I’d be happy to pull articles or books and help you translate them.”

Saunders mentioned Oberst Mueller’s name and asked if she’d heard of him. “Yes, yes, he lives here in town. He is an old man now, but still powerful amongst his many followers. You do realize that a small faction still remains, although they keep to themselves. The younger people in town see them as a joke, a throwback to the old ideals that fueled Nazism. No one challenges them or takes them seriously except themselves. We of the next generation wonder how they could ever have been duped into believing the things that were taught back then.”

“Hitler was a very persuasive man,” Saunders replied. “He developed a loyal following by giving power to the dispossessed and powerless.”

“That is true, but to advocate killing anyone with differing beliefs? That should have been their signal. But of course, by then it was too late.” She shrugged her shoulders. “So what would you like to see? Newspapers? Books?”

The men spent a pleasant afternoon with the librarian, combing through periodicals and news files for information about Oberst Mueller and his men. The found a picture of him taken during the war, and another group shot with him in it taken more recently. She promised to make copies of all the articles that they found, including the pictures, and looked up Mueller’s address for them, copying it onto a sheet of notepaper. “I’ll have these ready for you tomorrow, if you want to stop back in the morning.”

They thanked her and wandered off to find a restaurant before retiring for the evening.

The next morning when they came down to breakfast, Frieda seemed subdued. Her eyes were red and watery, as though she’d been crying. When they asked her if anything was wrong, she gulped back a sob and fled to the kitchen. Her husband approached the table and solemnly announced, “There was a tragic accident last night. Tragic. The town’s librarian was killed in a crash on the Autobahn. My wife was close to her. I’m afraid she is not herself this morning.” He turned and stalked back to the kitchen.

“Do you think Mueller’s up to his old tricks?” Caje whispered.

“We have to assume so,” Saunders said. “I wonder if she had a chance to copy off the materials that we had asked for. We’ll stop by the library this morning, and then go to the police office.”

“I was going to tell you, I think someone searched my room while we were out yesterday,” Caje continued. “Nothing was out of place, but I just had a feeling that someone had gone through my things.”

“I had the same feeling myself,” Saunders replied. “Fortunately, I had Cecile’s diary with me, so they didn’t get a chance to look at it, whoever they are. And I think we know who. They couldn’t have found anything, since we had nothing to find…yet.”

They hurried through breakfast. Neither Frieda nor her husband made another appearance, but the men could hear their raised voices in the kitchen. They sounded like they were having an argument, punctuated by Frieda’s loud weeping. Saunders thought at one point that he heard the name of Oberst Erich Mueller, but his German wasn’t good enough to understand what was being said.

At the library, the two were confronted by a somber staff. When they explained why there were there, one of the women told them that someone had broken into the library during the night and destroyed many of the publications, including most of the articles and books that the men had been using for reference.

“I can’t believe that it was a coincidence, the accident and the break-in both on the same night,” Saunders said to Caje. “Whoever broke in knew exactly what we were looking for. Now we’re back to square one. We have nothing except the diary.”

As they turned to leave, one of the staff members hurried to them and asked them to come to her office. “Brigitte left something with me last night. She told me to lock it in my desk and give it to no one but you when you came in today.” She thrust a packet of copied articles and pictures into Saunders’ hands.

“I wonder if she suspected that someone would try to destroy this,” Caje said.

“I wonder if she suspected they would destroy her, too?” mused Saunders. He turned back to the librarian. “This is exactly what we need. Thank you.” The attorney tucked the copies into his briefcase, and then warned the woman not to tell anyone what she’d just given him.

Outside once more, Saunders said, “Looks like the game’s afoot, Watson! These men are old, but there is still poison in their blunted fangs.”

“You make a terrible Holmes, and I’m no Dr. Watson. What are we going to do about the snakes?” asked Caje.

Briefly, Saunders outlined his plan. “We’ll flesh out the details after we’ve talked to the police,” he told Caje. “And that’s where we’re headed now.”

**********

Cecile had fallen asleep listening to the eleven o’clock news. Her dreams were troubled these days, filled with disturbing, half-forgotten images from her past. She had thought that the unburdening of her soul to the lawyer would chase the evil back into the hell from whence it had sprung, but she’d been wrong. If anything, the dreams were more vivid than before. She often awoke exhausted, if she even slept at all. Oberst Mueller’s grasp reached across the decades and smothered her with its foul touch.

In her dream, she was opening a bottle of poisoned wine, pouring the blood red liquid into a broken glass. Mueller was trying to force her to drink from the jagged edge of the glass when the shrill ring of the telephone startled her awake. The room was black; she was disoriented and couldn’t think at first where she was. Calls in the night were never good news.

“’Allo?” Her voice trembled. The dream had not released her from its grip yet.

“Cecile?”

“Yes, who is this please?”

“Cecile, it’s Chip Saunders. I think we’ve found him.”

Cecile’s only response was a sharp intake of breath. Even without a name, Cecile knew exactly who the lawyer was talking about.

“Cecile? Are you there?”

She hesitated for a split second, before answering, “Yes, I’m here. Where are you, Sahjent?”

“Caje and I are in Germany. I think we’ve found your Oberst Mueller, but we need you to identify him. If I bring you a picture, will you look at it?”

“How…why…” Cecile didn’t know what to ask first. “I didn’t know you were looking for him!”

“I’ll explain everything when I see you. Are you willing to try to identify him?” Saunders’ voice faded in and out with static across the transatlantic phone line.

“I don’t know…it was so long ago. I don’t know if I’d recognize him.”

“Just look at the picture. If it’s not the same man, or you’re not sure, just say so. I want you to be sure before we do anything else. Okay? Cecile? Are you still there?”

“Yes…yes, okay, Sahjent, I will look. When can I expect you?”

“We’re getting on a flight now. We should be home by late tomorrow, and I’ll call you to meet somewhere if that’s all right.”

“That’s fine. Thank you once again, Sahjent.”

“Don’t thank me yet, Cecile. The hard part is still ahead of us.”

For the first night since telling her story, she slept a deep and dreamless sleep.

**********

Saunders was rumpled in a casual sort of way. He’d slept on the plane, but not much. He had called Cecile from the airport, and he and Caje were on their way to meet her now.

“Do you think she’ll do it, Sarge?” asked Caje. “Do you think she’ll be willing to testify against him?”

“I don’t know. She had courage back then, and that’s something you don’t lose. I’ll know when I see her reaction as she looks at the picture.”

They paid the taxi driver and stood outside the restaurant for a moment. Caje grinned, and Saunders said, “What’s so funny?”

“You should see your face. That’s the same look you used to get whenever you were trying to outmaneuver the Krauts on patrol. You’re actually enjoying the chase, aren’t you? Thinking of a plan to corner the fox in the henhouse.”

Saunders grinned back. “And here comes our little chicken now,” he said. He stepped forward to greet Cecile. “I’m glad you decided to come,” he said. “This is Paul LeMay. He’s my chief investigator. We’ve been together since before Normandy, twenty years ago. You can trust him…to a point!” Caje laughed.

Cecile responded with a warm smile. “It’s very nice to meet you, Mr. LeMay.”

“Please, call me Caje. Everyone does.” He bent over her hand and brushed it with his lips. “Enchante, Madame!”

“Oh, yes, you’re the one that speaks French. We’ve met before, I believe. Your accent is much better this time!”

“And now I have a beautiful lady with whom to practice my native tongue,” he retorted, laughing.

“I can see what you mean, Sahjent. I will be on my guard!” Cecile smiled.

“Shall we?” Saunders led the way into the restaurant.

They ordered hors d’oeuvre, and then Saunders pulled an envelope out of his jacket pocket. “We met an old friend of yours,” he said. “She wanted to make sure this got back to you.”

He handed Cecile the diary. She gasped when she saw it, and ran her fingers lightly over the leather cover. “Madame Auberge? You saw her?” she asked.

“Yes. She asked about you. We told her you were doing well. She gave us a deposition to use in case we can bring Mueller to trial. We took a photo of her for you. I’ll give it to you after I get it developed.”

The waiter set the hors d’oeuvre on the table, and they occupied themselves with eating for a few minutes before Saunders said, “Are you ready to look at the picture?”

Cecile closed her eyes as though in prayer. She didn’t say anything for several seconds as she gathered herself, then nodded. “Yes, I think so. Let me see it.”

Saunders handed her a black-and-white photo of an elderly man playing chess. “Does that look like him?” he asked.

She gravely studied the photo for several seconds, tilting it to catch the best light. She frowned and looked at Saunders. “No, no it doesn’t. It doesn’t look like him at all. It’s all wrong, the face. His face was more…narrow and long. The nose was sharper. I don’t think this is him. I’m so sorry for all your trouble.” She was genuinely distressed as she handed the photo back to Saunders.

He looked at the picture, then took another from the envelope. He handed her the second photo and asked, “Did he look like this?”

Puzzled, she took the second photo and glanced at it, then gasped and dropped it like it was hot. “But…” she stammered.

“I wanted to make sure that you weren’t lying,” Saunders said. “I have to know that I can trust you, that you weren’t just pointing at a picture out of obligation, if I’m to be your attorney and represent you in your case against him. That IS Mueller, isn’t it?” he asked, indicating the second photo.

“Yes, I would know that face anywhere,” Cecile said. Her face was pale but resolute. “You have a plan. I can see it in you, in the way you talk and how you move.”

Saunders watched her, assessing her, gauging her strength and will. Finally he nodded. “How badly do you want to see him caught and punished?” he asked.

She looked down at the picture again, staring at it for a long moment. “Until I met you again, Sahjent, I wouldn’t let myself think about such a thing. To have any hope for his punishment would have been futile and a waste of my energy. I had no resources, no way to find him, and I wasn’t sure I wanted the old wounds opened for the world to see. I couldn’t protect my sister back then, but I had a son to protect after the war, and I didn’t want to see him tainted with blood-hate. Now he is grown, and he is strong. And because of you,” she nodded at Saunders, “and you,” she nodded at Caje, “I have strength, too. I can’t believe that my sister and I were his only victims. I will do what needs to be done to see that this man pays for the evil that he has inflicted on my family and others.”

“Caje?” Saunders turned to his partner. “What do you think?”

The investigator had been watching Cecile closely, listening for any sign of hesitation, looking for weakness that could be a clue as to how she would respond under pressure. He saw only a beautiful woman whose will had been forged into iron through intense suffering.

“I think she can do it, Sarge. She’s got guts.”

“That may not be enough. Many courageous people paid with their lives during the war,” Saunders replied, keeping his eyes on Cecile’s face.

Cecile nodded gravely. “This I know. I may be risking not only my life, but yours as well. Are you both willing to take that risk for someone you’ve only just met?”

Caje broke into a grin. “I think she’s got you, Sarge!”

Satisfied, Saunders smiled. “Okay, here’s the plan…”

**********

They had checked in at the Lufthansa ticket counter and gone through customs, and now the plane was taxiing down the runway. Cecile had a window seat, and was staring out at the buildings whizzing by faster and faster, and then at the ground receding below them. She settled herself more comfortably and flipped through a fashion magazine. Her mind wasn’t on the magazine, though; she was thinking of the task that lay ahead of them. She had placed her unwavering trust in two men whom she had met briefly in her delirium twenty years earlier, and now she was traveling halfway around the world with them to confront another man who haunted her dreams. Her fingers curled the edges of the magazine, wrinkling the pages in an involuntary spasm as she thought of what might happen.

Caje was sitting next to her, and gently pried her fingers from the magazine. “It’s going to be all right. Sarge knows what he’s doing. Take it easy.” His fingers intertwined with hers. “You’ll be fine. Just try to relax and get some rest. We’re right here with you.”

“Thanks. I’m good. A little anxious, maybe.” She extracted her hand and turned in her seat so that she was facing him. He was a rugged man with strong features, a square jaw and hawk nose. His gray eyes were deeply recessed under bushy eyebrows. His hair, once jet black, was now streaked with silver. He met her gaze without flinching, amusement tilting the corners of his lips.

“Well?” he asked.

“Well what?” she answered.

“Well, do you approve of what you see?” he teased her.

“Of course! You have a fine French face,” she laughed. She turned and reclined her seat. “So, tell me about yourself. How did you get into this work? Did you and the Sahjent decide to work together when you came home from the war?”

“No, in fact we lost touch for a few years. I was going through a bad time and he came to the rescue. We’ve worked together practically ever since.”

“He has a habit of coming to the rescue, doesn’t he? I admire that about him.”

“His moral compass is usually true. That’s why he decided to look for your Oberst. It seemed the honorable thing to him somehow, to set the past right by finding the man and bringing him to trial.”

She looked over at Saunders, already asleep in his seat. “Yes, honorable. That is how I would describe him. An honorable man.”

“Why don’t you try to rest? It’s going to be a long trip and the next few days are going to be tough,” Caje told her.

“I don’t think I can sleep. I’m too nervous. Tell me how he rescued you.”

Caje hesitated, and he stared into the past. His jaw tightened, and he was quiet for so long that Cecile said, in a low voice, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to pry. Of course you do not have to tell me anything.”

“There’s not much to tell,” Caje shrugged. “I was married, and then widowed, and Sarge helped me find the person who killed her. But first he had to pull me out of a whiskey bottle and set me back on my feet.”

“Ah. How awful. I am sorry about your wife.”

“She was beautiful, like you. You would have liked her. She was French too.”

“She sounds like a wonderful person. I am sorry I never had the pleasure of meeting her.”

He patted her hand. “Try to sleep now.” He leaned back and closed his eyes.

**********

The modern steel and glass building was all angles and corners, reflecting opalescent fire as the sun inched toward the horizon. The word Bundeskriminalamt over the front door was made of brushed aluminum letters mounted in bas-relief. The door hissed open as the trio approached, sucking them into the cool interior, then hissed closed behind them to seal them in. Shafts of bluish light arced through the glass walls, puddling on the polished marble floor and lighting it as from below.

Saunders gave his card to a uniformed man sitting at a desk inside the door and waited while the officer made a phone call. He glanced around, taking in the free-hanging staircase suspended by thick ropes of twisted steel, and made of shallow, brushed-metal steps and rounded brushed metal banisters. Elevators with burnished doors and glowing floor indicators were tucked into a corner. The shafts were surrounded by glass, and Saunders imagined that the view from the top floor must be spectacular.

His thoughts were interrupted by the arrival of a distinguished, middle-aged man. He was wearing an expensive, well-cut suit, and his thick, dark hair was brushed straight back from his face. His upper lip was obscured by a heavy mustache, but his broad smile couldn’t be hidden.

“Mr. Saunders, thank you for coming. And Mr. LeMay, nice to see you again,” he greeted the men. He had a pleasant, thickly accented voice.“And this must be our young lady.” If anything, his smile broadened. “I’m Detective Inspector Buerger,” he introduced himself.

Cecile couldn’t help but appreciate his warmth and welcoming manner. She smiled and shook his hand. “I’m Mrs. Cecile Brouier Jones,” she replied.

“Shall we go to my office?” DI Buerger suggested, leading the way.

They settled themselves in comfortable chairs ringed around a mahogany desk. “Coffee? Tea? Water?” Buerger asked. He buzzed his secretary on the intercom to give directions, and then added, “Send the others in, too, please.”

The door opened again, and a young couple entered the room. They were fresh-faced, with ruddy complexions from long hours spent outdoors. They were dressed in athletic clothing, and came in holding hands.

“Ah, welcome,” said Buerger. “Let me introduce you. Mr. Saunders, Mr. LeMay, Mrs. Jones. These energetic young people are our secret weapon. They are a pair of our best undercover agents, Officer Kasten and Officer Zeitser, Johann and Anna. They will be checking in as a newly wedded honeymooning couple. They will be in a room near yours, Mrs. Jones – we’ve made reservations for you. Mr. LeMay and Mr. Saunders already have their reservations.”

The younger officers shook hands with the other three and stood near the door.

“We will have your room under surveillance, Mrs. Jones, so that we can record anything we need to if and when Mueller shows up. Your job is to try to get a confession from him. That will save us time in court – he can deny everything he wants to, but if we have his voice on tape admitting to the crimes, he will have a difficult time refuting that.”

Sanders interrupted. “What about the accident that killed the librarian? How is that investigation going?”

“Ah, yes,” Buerger said. “As you suspected, it was not an accident. It was a deliberately planned and executed murder. The brake lines in the car had been cut, and we found paint transfer from another car that pushed her over the edge of the embankment. So Mrs. Jones, if Mueller happens to mention anything about the librarian, we’d be grateful to get that on tape too.”

“Where do you want us?” Saunders asked.

“Your rooms will flank Mrs. Jones’ room, and the undercover officers will be across the hall. It would be best if you men didn’t acknowledge your acquaintance with Mrs. Jones, although you’ll be nearby in case she needs your assistance. You brought weapons? Yes? I will give you letters authorizing you to carry and use them at your discretion while you’re here.”

Saunders nodded thoughtfully. “We can’t all show up at the same time or it will raise suspicion.”

“Yes, we’ve taken that into account, and we’ve worked out a schedule of sorts,” Buerger replied. He filled in the rest of the details to Saunders’ satisfaction.

“I think we’re as ready as we’re going to be, and have made all possible preparations for Mrs. Jones’ safety,” the Detective Inspector finally said. “It’s getting late. We’d best set things into motion.”

Saunders and Caje were to take a train back to the small town, while Cecile was going to drive a rental car. The “married” couple would take an earlier train, and they would all check in at staggered times. The plan would be set into motion that night.

Cecile arrived at the inn first. The sky was a pale lilac color with the approaching sunset, and the first star had already come out of hiding. She pulled into the gravel parking area and removed her small bag from the trunk of the car. She glanced around, but saw no one who looked interested in what she was doing. She hurried to the front door and let herself in. The inn was as inviting as she’d imagined. A fire crackled and popped in the fireplace of the common room, but even the homey feeling didn’t put her at her ease. She was nervous and trying not to show it.

“May I help you?” Frieda smiled as Cecile came to the desk.

“Yes, I have a reservation,” Cecile said, handing Frieda her passport.

“Ah, yes, Mrs. Jones, if you will just sign our guest register, your room is all prepared.” Frieda gave Cecile a key and pointed her to her room. “If you need anything, please let me know. We have a list of restaurants if you feel like going out for dinner tonight.”

“Thank you. I’ll just go freshen up, and perhaps I’ll come look at that list in a few minutes.”

“As you wish.”

Cecile was starting down the hallway to her room when the front door opened and the two undercover officers entered. They were holding hands again, and gazing into each other’s eyes, laughing at a shared joke. They approached the desk, and spoke in rapid German to Frieda. She laughed with them, and then registered them.

Cecile opened the door to her room and stepped inside. It was an attractive and comfortable room, with a high four-poster bed covered with a colorful patchwork quilt. A nook near the window contained an overstuffed reading chair and ottoman and a small side table with an antique lamp. The lamp’s soft glow dispelled the twilight gloom of the room, and Cecile went over to pull the curtains closed across the windows. Two men were walking toward the front of the inn carrying overnight bags, and she recognized Saunders and Caje. Her nerves calmed and the worry lines in her brow smoothed.

She unpacked her suitcase, storing her cosmetics and toiletries in the tiny adjoining bathroom and hanging her dresses in the closet. Then, satisfied, she locked the door and walked back to the front desk.

“Mr. Saunders, I’m so glad you two came back,” Frieda was saying. “I was afraid you’d have a very poor opinion of our town after what happened when you were here last week.”

“We are on our way back home and decided to spend one or two more nights here because you were so gracious when to us before. We wanted to make sure that you were all right,” Saunders said.

Frieda hesitated and glanced toward the back room. “Why, yes. Of course I am all right. Why wouldn’t I be?”

“It was a terrible thing that happened to the librarian. You seemed very upset,” LeMay answered.

“Oh, that. Yes. Well, we can’t dwell on the past, can we. We must take care of the present. Here are your keys, I believe you know how to get to your rooms,” she said brusquely. “I am fine, really. Ah, there you are, Mrs. Jones. You’ll want to see the restaurant list.” She turned away from the men.

“Yes, I’ve decided perhaps I am hungry after all. Maybe you can give me a recommendation, and directions. I’m looking for an old friend who may live in this area. Perhaps you know him? His name when I knew him was Oberst Erich Mueller.”

Frieda glanced sharply at the woman. “Mueller? What do you want with him?”

“Oh, my, I haven’t seen him in…perhaps twenty years,” Cecile smiled. “I was acquainted with him when he was stationed in the town in France where I grew up. I was just a young woman. I recently found an old journal that I kept during the war,” she lifted a leather bound book from her handbag, “and saw his name, and remembered what friends we once were. I had hoped to look him up while I was in Germany. I have business to conduct in Munich but decided to take this little side trip down memory lane to find him and perhaps discuss old times.”

Saunders interrupted. “You’re from France? My partner and I,” he indicated Caje, “were here last week doing some research into the German troops from this area for a book. You say that you knew Herr Mueller? Perhaps we could interview you also? I’m Charles Saunders, and this is Paul LeMay. We’re from New York City.”

“Oh, I don’t know, Sah…nders,” Cecile blushed at her near-faux pas.

“We were just going to go have some dinner, maybe you’d like to join us? Since we were here last week, we already know where the best restaurants are.”

Cecile looked at the innkeeper. “What do you think?” she asked.

Frieda shrugged her shoulders. “They were quiet and respectful and paid their bill, that’s all I know.”

“That’s a sterling recommendation, coming from an innkeeper,” Cecile smiled. “I believe I will let you buy me dinner, Mr. Saunders. But please, call me Cecile.”

“Let us take the bags to our rooms and we’ll be right back,” Saunders said, and he and Caje hurried down the hall. They tapped quietly on the door across the hall as they were unlocking their rooms. The door opened a crack, and they could see one of the officers eyeing them. “So far, so good,” Saunders whispered, slipping the key into his lock. The eye disappeared and the door clicked shut.

At the front desk, Willy had joined his wife. “So, you are looking for Herr Mueller? Why do you want to see him?” the man asked.

“As I told your wife, I was acquainted with Oberst Mueller during the war. His unit was stationed in my town in France. But…you look familiar. Perhaps you were there too? That would be too much coincidence to hope for! What is your name? I may have mentioned you in my journal too…” She pulled the book out of her bag again.

“You would have had no reason to mention me, I assure you, even if I was there,” Willy said. “But I am a friend of Herr Mueller; I will let him know that you wish to meet with him.”

“That would be wonderful of you. Thank you,” Cecile replied, replacing the journal as Saunders and LeMay joined her.

“Do you know these men?” asked Willy, suspicion freezing his blue eyes.

“I do now. We just met a moment ago. They’ve graciously invited me for dinner and to discuss what my little town was like during the occupation.” Cecile smiled disarmingly at the innkeeper. “They say they’re researching for a book. Maybe they’ll include me in it!”

Saunders smiled. She was playing her part beautifully now that her nerves had settled. “Shall we?” he escorted her out the door with Caje.

They ate al fresco at a popular restaurant, limiting their discussion to common topics and the war years so as not to raise suspicion.

During the leisurely stroll back to the inn, Saunders reminded Cecile about her role. “Remember, you didn’t know us until tonight. Hopefully Frieda didn’t notice your slip earlier.”

“I am sorry about that, Sahjent…ah, Charles,” Cecile groaned. “It’s harder than I thought – I’ve always thought of you as only ‘Sahjent’. ”Now I have to put a real name with you. But I will manage. I will not slip again, I promise.”

“Good. We’ll be with you in your room tonight – if it’s going to happen, it’ll be soon. I don’t think Mueller will let too much time elapse – he’ll be afraid that you’ll tell us too much.”

“I am glad he doesn’t know that I already told you!” Cecile smiled.

They entered the inn together, and the men escorted Cecile to her room. She stood back as Saunders opened her door and looked around. He and Caje went in and searched under the bed, in the closet, in the bathroom, anywhere that a man could hide. When they were satisfied that the room was empty, Saunders said, “It’s all clear. You can come in.”

“Someone has been here,” she said. “That drawer wasn’t open when I left. They’ve searched my room.”

“Good, that’s exactly what we wanted. You kept the diary with you, right?”

“Oh, yes, Charles. It is in my bag.” She patted her shoulder bag. “It does not leave my possession.”

“Good. Let us go to our rooms and rummage around as though we’re getting ready for bed, and then we’ll come back in and hide here. We want to keep you safe.”

“Don’t worry; I won’t let him hurt me again. But we must get the confession, even if he is threatening me,” Cecile reminded them before closing the door behind them.

The men waited until they heard the lock turn on Cecile’s door. “You know what to do, Caje?”

“Right, Charles.” Caje gave Saunders a sly grin and the attorney cocked one eyebrow back at him.

An hour later, they were positioned. Caje was in the closet, tucked between lightly perfumed dresses. The door was just slightly ajar so that he could hear. Saunders was in the bathroom standing in the tub behind the curtain.

Quiet descended on the inn. The only sounds were the ticking of the mantel clock and its chiming of the hour. Saunders fought sleep. He knew he needed to be alert in case something happened tonight. The young couple across the hall would be glued to the door, too, waiting and watching, he knew.

The moon was waning, and clouds were covering the stars when he finally heard it. A car had rolled quietly to a stop in front of the inn. Its engine wasn’t running – the driver must have shut it off down the road and coasted in. Cecile peeked out the window and saw someone get out of the car. The interior light had been disconnected, but she could vaguely see the outline of a man holding the door to keep it from slamming. The man snuck toward the front door of the inn, which opened before he reached it.

Cecile alerted the men and positioned herself on the bed with the journal open next to her, as though she had fallen asleep while reading it. The small lamp in the corner bathed the room in soft light. Presently she heard the creak of footsteps coming up the stairs. A soft scraping of the key being turned in the lock sounded at Cecile’s door, and she heard the lock snap back and the door swing open. A male voice said, “Du vin pour la belle dame?” The door closed and Cecile opened her eyes, feigning surprise, and sat up on the bed. “Who…why are you in my room?” She blinked in the light and squinted her eyes, pretending she was having trouble seeing the intruder. “Oberst Mueller? Is that you? What are you doing here?” she demanded.

“I heard you wanted to renew our relationship from twenty years ago, my dear,” purred the old man.

“So you got my message,” she said. She was in the same room with Oberst Mueller for the first time in two decades. He held the wine out to her, but she refused to take it. Inside, she was quaking, but she didn’t want him to see her hands shaking. She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of knowing how upset she was. She stood from the bed and moved toward the alcove, pulling her robe tightly around her.

“Oh, come now, my dear,” he smirked. “Why so modest? Why else would you have come to this town if not to drink with me one more time? If not to be with me one more time?”

“You are mistaken, Herr Mueller. I am here for one reason only, and that is to see that you are brought to justice for all the hurt you have caused.”

“Ah, yes, justice. Well, that is a nice concept, but hardly applicable in this situation, wouldn’t you think? It’s been twenty years since we were together. How much justice can there be after that much time?”

“What about the librarian? What about justice for her?”

“Well,” Mueller said, “she did get in the way. She was warned, but she chose to ignore the warning. So for her, justice has already been done. Now, I believe you have something that I want. Where is your diary, my dear?”

Cecile glanced toward the bed, where she’d had the journal open before he had come in.

“What do you want with my diary? You can’t have it!”

He saw the book on the bed. “Why, without the diary, it’s just your word against mine. And without you, it’s just my word. First the book, then I’ll deal with you!”

She lunged for the diary at the same time that he did. She grabbed it and clutched it to her breast. “No, I won’t let you have it!” she declared. He tore it from her hands and pushed her down into the chair.

“Yes, you will. Let me see what lies you wrote about me.” He opened the book and turned a few pages. His face flushed with anger. “There’s nothing here!” he screamed. “It’s blank! You’ve tricked me!”

He threw the book against the wall, and it bounced into the table lamp, knocking it to the floor and shattering it, extinguishing the soft light and leaving the room in darkness. Feeble moonlight filtered through a crack in the curtain. “I’ll kill you this time! I should have killed you back then, like I killed your sister, like I killed those foolish old neighbors of yours. You’ll regret the day you tried to deceive me. I’ll kill you with my bare hands, after I take you one more time – it’ll be just like the old days. One more time for the memory!” He swung his fist at her, aiming for her face in the darkness – “They’ll never recognize you when I’m through with you!” She ducked under his arm, avoiding his flailing fists, and ran to the door.

“You’ll never get away! Come back here, my dear Cecile!”

She turned and faced him. “You don’t have my sister to use as blackmail anymore, Mueller. You’re powerless. You’re nothing but a foolish old man, without even the strength to fight anymore.” She picked up the bottle of wine by the neck and smashed it, then waved the broken piece at him. “You want to beat me? You want to rape me again? Go ahead and try. You want to kill me? I’ll kill you, you bastard!” She swung the bottle neck at him and cried, “Here’s wine from a pretty lady!” Blood red drops sprayed across the room.

Saunders seized her hand from behind, squeezing until she dropped the broken glass. He and Caje had stepped out of hiding in time to see Cecile break the bottle. They’d heard Mueller’s confession and threats. Now the attorney wrapped his arms around the sobbing woman to quiet her shaking. “It’s over, Cecile. It’s over,” he spoke softly into her ear. “We’ve got him. He didn’t win. You didn’t let him win.”

Mueller was furious, fighting and kicking, trying to escape Caje’s grip around his neck. “Calm down,” said the investigator. “You’re not going anywhere, buddy.” The undercover officers from across the hall pulled Mueller’s arms behind him and snapped on a set of handcuffs.

“Did you get everything?” Saunders asked them.

“Ja, it is all on tape, everything he said. It will all go for his trial,” Johann said, holding the tape up like a trophy before tucking it into his pocket.

“Caje…” Saunders gestured to the investigator, who came over and took Cecile’s arm.

“Under the circumstances,” Caje said to Cecile, “you’d better pack your bag. I don’t think we’ll be spending the night here.”

Cecile started gathering her things together while Saunders peered out the window. Shadows were deep along the street in front of the inn. The quarter moon hung like a sickle in the sky, spilling its reflection onto the treetops. Nothing moved; even the wind was still.

The officers marched the still-resisting prisoner out of the room and down the stairs to wait for a police car to transport them to the jail. “You’ll never get me to the police station!” he taunted them. “My men will stop you!”

The innkeeper was hanging up the phone as they passed the front desk. He was shaking with rage, and his mustache trembled with his anger. His icy eyes were sparking with fury. “You will not get away with this,” he hissed at the officers. “She is a liar! Why do you believe what that whore has been telling you?”

“We have evidence that this man committed war crimes,” Johann said. “He even confessed to such a thing upstairs. If you interfere, you will be arrested too.”

“Lies! It’s all lies!” Mueller shrieked. “My men will be here at any moment – you will not live to see another morning!”

“If we don’t live, you don’t live,” Johann calmly proclaimed.

A car pulled up to the front of the building and several men got out. Two ran toward the back of the inn, and three others spread out so that they were approaching from different directions. Moonlight glinted off metal; the men made no sounds as they crept toward the inn.

“Johann…” Anna whispered. She’d been watching out the window for the police car and had almost opened the front door to take the prisoner out as she saw the car approach. At the last minute, she realized that the men were not police, and backed into the shadows in the front hallway.

“Yes, I see,” Johann whispered back. They pushed Mueller down onto the floor, and both extracted hidden weapons. Mueller wriggled on the floor, and Johann pushed down on his shoulder to keep him still.

“Drop your guns,” the innkeeper said from behind them. Johann turned and saw Willy holding a Mauser pointed at them. “I said, ‘Drop them,’ now!” he ordered. “You will not be taking Oberst Mueller anywhere.”

Johann and Anna glanced at each other. Neither had a clean shot at Willy. They had no choice; they laid their handguns on the carpet and put their hands in the air. “Now, unlock his handcuffs,” Willy said.

Johann took the key from his pocket and crouched to unlock the cuffs. He was partially hidden behind the prisoner, and unobtrusively lifted his pant leg and retrieved a gun strapped to his ankle. The caliber of the weapon was small; its range was short and its accuracy was questionable at more than a few yards, but it was firepower. With the pistol in his right hand, he stood, dragging Mueller up by the neck to stand in front of him. He held the pistol to Mueller’s head and quietly said, “Anna, get behind me. He won’t shoot Mueller, I’m sure of that.”

Mueller tried to dodge and break free, but Johann held tight to his throat until Mueller almost blacked out. “Drop your gun!” Johann commanded. “Kick it over here!” In disgust, Willy threw his weapon at the officers, succeeding only in striking Mueller in the chest.

“Lie down on the floor and put your hands behind your head,” Johann ordered. “Cross your legs. If I hear one sound from this direction, you’re a dead man.” He eased Mueller over to the door, and stood behind him, still using him as a shield. Anna picked up all the weapons, tucking Willy’s into her waistband, and traded Johann his service weapon for the smaller gun. Then she went to the other side of the door and took up a position where she could see both the door and Willy.

Johann flicked the light switch and the front hall was suddenly doused in inky blackness. Outside, two shrouded figures snuck through the yard toward the back door, quiet in their stealth. Each brandished a large handgun, searching for targets as they crept forward. They were intent on breaching the door and surprising the police officers from behind. They weren’t expecting an ambush.

Saunders and Caje had slipped out a window and silently dropped to the ground. A pair of wraiths, black against deeper black, they floated out of the shadows behind the two men, silent as the night. One soundless step at a time they stalked the infiltrators, creeping inch by inch until they were within an arm’s length. Then, without warning, the specters quickly struck the intruders down. There was no sound other than a muffled thud as the men fell. In tacit agreement, the two split up and began to circle towards the front of the house from opposite directions.

Johann peeked out the window, searching for the men that he knew were hiding outside somewhere. Anna had a good view of the back door, and planned to shoot anyone bold enough to step through it.

Willy tipped his head up and sneered at them. “You’re going to have a long wait. I intercepted your call for reinforcements. No one is coming to help you. You’re as good as dead. You might as well free Oberst Mueller now and things will be easier for you.”

Mueller nodded and tried to turn. Johann kept his hand around his throat and the gun pointed at his back, but Mueller to gurgled his agreement. “Give up now…” were the only strangled words he could get out of his throat.

Outside, the Saunders and Caje had crept around the sides of the house. At one corner, a stooped, gray-haired man was hidden behind a bush, staring in a window and drawing a bead with his weapon. He had a clean shot at Anna’s back as she turned to glance at the back door. He steadied his weapon on the window ledge and started to squeeze the trigger, but a powerful blow to the neck paralyzed him and he dropped the gun as he grimaced and fell to the ground. Fierce gray eyes penetrated his blurred vision; those eerie eyes were his last sight before he died.

On the other side of the house, a fourth man, trim in his middle age, was standing erect, waiting for a signal to rush the house. His shoulder was against the side of the house, and he faced the road where the car was parked. He was balanced on the balls of his feet, both hands holding his weapon pointed down at the ground. He heard a rustle behind him and started to turn, intending to scold his companion for trying to sneak up on him. He saw a dark form dart from behind a bush, and before he had a chance to react, he felt a knife enter his ribcage. He tried to shout a warning, but no sound could escape the hand that was clamped over his mouth. He sank to the ground, eyes wide in death, and slowly exhaled for the last time.

One man remained. He was crouched behind the car at in the driveway, peering over the hood as he studied the front of the house. His weapon was aimed at the door; he held it steady and never wavered. He was a combat veteran, as all of them were, but twenty years was a long time. He forgot a cardinal rule of combat. He forgot to look behind him. That was the last mistake he ever made.

Saunders reached into the men’s car and honked the horn. “Open the door,” Caje called. “It’s all right.”

Anna snapped back the lock on the door and opened it. Saunders and LeMay ran up the sidewalk and into the house. “Let’s get moving,” Saunders said. “Caje, help them get these men into the car. I’ll go get Cecile.”

“Wait a second,” Johann said. “Let me handcuff these two together. It’ll be easier to keep an eye on them.” He unfastened one of the cuffs on Mueller and snapped it onto Willy’s wrist, then prodded the men out the door. “The rental car is larger – we’ll take that one,” he said.

He pushed the restrained men into the back seat, while Anna got in on the other side. They flanked the detained men, leaving the front seat for Saunders, Cecile and LeMay. Cecile tossed the keys to Saunders, who quickly threw their luggage into the trunk while she and Paul got into the front. He slid behind the wheel and started the car, reversing into the street, then throwing it into drive and stepping on the gas.

“If my guess is right, they’ll have others waiting along the road in an ambush in case the first wave wasn’t successful,” Saunders said through gritted teeth. With total concentration, he expertly wheeled the car around a curve approaching the autobahn. “What’s the fastest way to the Bundeskriminalamt? We can try to outrun them on the Autobahn, or we can take the back roads and hope that they didn’t set up an ambush in two places.”

“Autobahn is better,” Anna said. “There may be police along there that we can ask for help. We do not want to be on the unfamiliar back roads in the middle of the night fleeing from those who are shooting at us or who may have set up a roadblock.”

“Autobahn it is,” Saunders said, increasing the speed of the car to merge with traffic on the expressway. “Keep a watch!”

“Do you think they would try to ram us like they did the librarian, with Mueller in the car?” asked Johann.

“Mueller better hope not!” Caje declared. “For our sakes AND his.”

They sped along the road for several miles. Traffic was light this late at night. Caje was watching behind them, keeping an eye on his mirror. Far in the distance, he noticed flashing blue lights. “I think we’ve got company, Sarge,” he said.

Saunders looked in the rear-view mirror. “Ours, or theirs?” he asked. Johann turned and looked out the back window.

“I don’t know. It could be either,” he replied.

“Get those two down, then,” Saunders commanded, and Johann and Anna pushed the prisoners down onto the floor so that they couldn’t be seen through the window. Saunders coasted the car to a stop along the berm, and waited for the vehicle with the flashing lights to catch up with them. It pulled in behind their car, its high beams blinding them with their intensity.

“I can’t tell what kind of car it is, Sarge,” Caje said. He was ducked low, as were the others. Suddenly, the rear window of their car exploded into a million tiny shards, spraying them all with glass. Saunders yanked the wheel to the left and screeched onto the road while Johann tried to aim through the gaping hole where the rear window had been. He fired off four rounds, striking the radiator of the other vehicle with two and the front windscreen with one.

In spite of the damage from the bullets, the other car pulled back onto the road and resumed the pursuit. Steam was pouring from the front of the car, and the windshield was so starred that Saunders didn’t know how anyone driving the vehicle could possibly see through it. It was gradually gaining on the rental car, though Saunders had the gas pedal all the way to the floor. The speedometer of the rental car was maxed and the engine roared with the effort of the chase.

The rattle of gunfire shook the car as bullets penetrated the metal body. “They’re trying to hit the gas tank,” Caje muttered. “They don’t care that Mueller is in here with us.”

Mueller snarled and said, “My people will kill anyone who stands in their way. I am happy to give my life for the cause. We all are. That is what we live and die for – the cause! Heil Hitler!”

Willy echoed, “Heil!”

“Shut up, you two,” Caje snarled back. “We might grant you your wish otherwise.”

“Shut them up, Caje,” Saunders snapped.

“My pleasure, Sarge,” Caje said, turning to lean over the seat.

“You are in no position to threaten us, Private,” Mueller laughed. “Oh, you thought I didn’t know? You have the look of one who takes orders.”

“And I take them well,” Caje said as he backhanded the Oberst in the jaw. Mueller went limp and fell against Willy. “Are you going to shut up?” he asked Willy. The older man didn’t answer, just pushed Mueller away, and then turned a hateful glare to Caje. “Keep it that way,” Caje commanded.

Anna looked back at the pursuing car. She had a better angle than Johann, and with Mueller unconscious, she could take her time. She turned and sat on her knees, backwards in the seat, and rested her elbows on the rear shelf where the window had been. She took careful aim and squeezed off a shot. It ricocheted off the fender of the car and caused no damage. She aimed again and squeezed again with the same result. She repositioned herself, leaning into the back seat to steady herself, and aimed one more time. This time she succeeded in striking a front tire, which exploded and shredded on impact. The car swerved across the road and veered into oncoming traffic as the driver tried unsuccessfully to control its skid. It struck the guardrail on the other side and burst into a fireball.

Saunders eased up on the gas and pulled off the road. He watched the car burn for a few seconds, then turned to look at the officers. “Is everyone all right?” he asked.

Anna nodded and looked over at Johann. He was staring straight ahead, silent and unmoving.

“Johann? Are you all right?” she asked. She touched his shoulder, and he tipped slowly to the side. She could see the blood on the back of his head. “Mein Gott!” she cried. “He’s been shot!”

Caje whipped around and looked at the man. He felt for a pulse, but already knew he wouldn’t find one. He glanced at Saunders and shook his head. In the hail of bullets that had hit the car, one had found a viable target, and had snuffed out Johann’s life so quickly that he didn’t even slouch over in the seat. His eyes were frozen open and unblinking in an astonished expression.

Saunders started the car again and slowly merged back onto the road. No cars passed him; other drivers had stopped to stare at the accident scene and to try to render aid to the unfortunate souls trapped in the burning car. No one in the burning auto could have survived.

The rental car limped up in front of the Bundeskriminalamt a short time later and Saunders leaned on the horn. Police officers were soon swarming over the car, and then ambulance attendants were removing Johann’s body.

“Call DI Buerger,” Anna requested. Her weary voice was tinged with the tears that she was not allowing herself to cry. Cecile walked over and put her arm around the younger woman. She didn’t say anything, just hugged her. Then Anna’s tears started.

**********

As is the case with many bullies, they are pure cowards at heart, and will back down in the face of power and authority. Herr Oberst Mueller was no exception. He was taken to jail that night to await extradition and trial on multiple charges, including murder and war crimes, but once more he managed to escape justice. With his unit wiped out, and the evidence against him incontrovertible, he chose the coward’s way out. He was found hanging by the neck, dead in his jail cell the next morning. Willy was spared the difficult choice of testifying against his commander or serving the rest of his days in prison. His wife, Frieda, might as well have been a widow. She’d never have him by her side again. Prison was his lot.

The Lufthansa flight taxied down the runway and lifted into the air. Cecile sat between Saunders and Caje, and held each of their hands. She squeezed them tightly, and said, “I don’t know how to thank you both. It’s over. It’s really over. He can never hurt me or my family again.”

“It was our pleasure,” Caje said, returning the squeeze.

“I’m so very sorry about Johann, though,” Cecile sighed. “Poor man. Anna gave me her address; I will write to her and make sure they’re treating her well. And I will write to Mrs. Auberge and perhaps visit her sometime soon. I think I can go back to my village now without the nightmares.”

Saunders leaned back and closed his eyes. The contentment that had been eluding him for so long now seemed possible. When he looked at Cecile, he no longer saw the haunted eyes of the tormented young girl, but the beautiful and peaceful eyes of the serene woman. He could grow to love this feeling of accomplishment.

The stewardess came down the aisle and asked if they’d be interested in drinks.

“Yes, we’ll take a bottle of wine,” Saunders said. The stewardess set three crystal wine glasses on the tray table in front of Saunders, and poured wine into all three. He passed one to Caje and one to Cecile, then lifted the third one in a toast. Caje beat him to it, though, as he lifted his glass too. “Wine for a beautiful lady,” he said and clinked his glass with Cecile’s. He winked at Saunders and grinned. Saunders shrugged, and echoed, “For a beautiful lady!” Cecile laughed. “To a pair of wonderful men!” she said, and sipped from her glass.

THE END