The Witch’s Grave (8 page)

The dreams, when they came, left me breathless. The scent of expensive perfume surrounded me as I sat in a car speeding past houses, the windows either shuttered or the curtains drawn. I wasn’t happy—I
did not
want to be here, but something told me I’d had no choice. Looking down, I saw I wore an evening gown—black lace covered flesh-toned silk on a bodice that dipped dangerously low, showing cleavage I didn’t know I had. A satin skirt with tucking covered my legs down to my ankles. Something dug at my waist, and I shifted uncomfortably. My whole torso felt like I was bound by elastic.

My God, I’m wearing a girdle. I’ve never worn a girdle in my life.

My hand stole up to my hair. I fingered loose curls covering the top of my head and spilling down onto my forehead. The rest was held up and off my neck by combs. I felt the soft petals of a flower attached to one of the combs. Turning my head, I caught my wavy reflection in the car window.

Amber eyes, slanted slightly up in the corners, stared back at me from a pale face crowned with dark red hair.
I’m a redhead?
A small, well-shaped nose sat above lips almost too big for the face. I didn’t know who stared back at me, but it wasn’t Ophelia Jensen from Summerset, Iowa.

“Madeleine?”

Right—I’m supposed to be Madeleine.

“Huh?” I turned back to the woman sitting next to me on the smooth leather seat. I recognized her as one of the tall, thin women from my last dream. She, too, wore an evening gown in red with fine quilting around the top.
Had she forced herself into a girdle, too?
The name “Giselle” popped into my head.

She picked up a small evening bag lying beside her on the seat and removed a tube of lipstick and a compact. Opening the compact, she uncapped the lipstick and, after a couple of deft turns, began applying the bright red cream to her lips.

I saw the driver glance back at us in the rearview mirror.

“You’d better change your attitude,” she said under her breath, using the compact to block the driver’s view of her lips.

“I hate these parties,” I replied, settling back in the seat.
That comment sounded like me
.

“Shh,” she hissed, with a jerk of her head toward the driver.

I knew what she meant—keep my mouth shut or I’d be reported. How did I know that? How did I know I was being forced to attend a party? Yet I did.

Staring out the window again, I watched darkened monuments, parks, churches flash by. The car’s headlights, partially covered with tape to lower their brightness, reflected dimly off signs, once in French but now in German. Everywhere, the presence of the Nazis scarred our streets.

This is so weird. I’m still me, Ophelia Jensen, but at the same time, I’m someone else—the woman everyone calls Madeleine. I know what she knows, I feel what she feels.

A sudden bizarre realization hit me.

I’m speaking French, and I don’t know French.
When
I woke, would I still be able to converse in the language? Somewhere in the recesses of my mind, I felt like giggling.

Wait, I never giggle
.

What’s going on? Am I under so much stress that I’ve begun to suffer from multiple personality disorder? That I’m developing a new persona called Madeleine? What if she decides to make an appearance while I’m awake?

The thought scared me and I tensed—I had enough problems.

Relax
, said a voice in my head,
go with the dream.

I tried, and as I did, I felt the “Ophelia” part of me fade away as if going into a deep sleep, and the “Madeleine” part take control.

Looking at the back of the driver’s head, my hatred of the Nazis filled me, but I schooled my expression to show nothing. Like so many others, my life depended on my ability to hide my true feelings. The effort turned my mouth to dust.

The car slowed as it approached a grand house with iron gates. The gates opened and we pulled into a paved drive. At the entrance, the car stopped and the driver got out and opened my door as a servant opened Giselle’s. Pulling my stole around my shoulders, I exited the car as gracefully as possible in my tight gown. With a smile, Giselle linked her arm with mine, and we climbed the wide steps leading to the heavy doors. As if by magic, the doors swung wide at our approach, revealing a magnificent entry, light and bright. A sharp contrast to the black shadows that hung over the city now.

Antique Persian rugs lay scattered on marble floors polished to a mirrored shine. Fine art by some of France’s most well-known impressionists hung on the walls. From the salon on my left, I heard laughter and the sound of clinking glasses.

I thought of the poor gathering in dark rooms, around their meager meals, and my lips twisted with bitterness. A
sharp jab in the ribs from Giselle made me remember where I was, and, as I crossed the threshold, I forced myself to smile at the servant taking my stole.

As an officer strode out of the salon toward us, Giselle stepped forward and offered her hand.

Taking it, he dipped his head stiffly. “Mademoiselle, so kind of you to join us,” he said in a clipped voice as his cold green eyes appraised her.

Giselle rewarded him with a gracious nod. “Colonel Vogel, it’s our pleasure. Thank you for the invitation.”

The colonel’s focused his attention on me.

Striving to mimic Giselle, I nodded, too. “Yes, thank you, Colonel.”

“Ah, Madeleine, no need to be so formal,” he replied, lifting my hand and pressing it to his lips. Releasing it, he motioned toward the salon. “Ladies, please join us.”

As I followed the colonel and Giselle across the polished floor, I still felt the pressure of his lips on the back of my hand. I fought the desire to wipe away the feeling on my expensive gown.

The salon was much like the entryway. Priceless paintings adorned the cream-colored walls, and heavy crystal chandeliers sparkled in the candlelight. Women, powdered and rouged, lounged gracefully on antique furniture covered in satin, chatting with men dressed in uniforms. Servants, carrying trays laden with glasses filled with dark red wine, mingled with the guests.

This house was fit for a king…or a conqueror.

We joined a group gathered by the fireplace. And as we approached, I overheard the words “Russia” and “Leningrad.”

The colonel’s voice rang out over the conversation. “With such charming company,” he chided, “let’s have no talk of war tonight.”

He stopped the servant nearby, and seizing two glasses from the tray, handed them to Giselle and I. Taking a glass
for himself, he raised it high. “To the Fuehrer,” he toasted in a loud clear voice.

Giselle lifted her glass, and after a warning glance at me, took a drink.

Reluctantly, I tipped my glass toward her, but holding it to my lips, only pretended to sip. I would
not
drink to Hitler.

After the colonel’s warning, the conversation shifted to the latest gossip from Berlin. Caring nothing about the quirks of the Third Reich’s upper echelon, I tried not to look bored.

“Madeleine, you seem very quiet tonight,” the colonel whispered at my elbow.

I carelessly lifted a shoulder in reply.
Be charming, be witty,
insisted the voice in my head, but it was impossible.

“When is Henrick returning?” he asked.

A moment of disorientation threw me.
Henrick? Who’s Henrick?
Then it hit me, Madeleine—me—we had a lover.
Wow—a lover!
A Swedish businessman involved in selling much needed iron ore to the Third Reich. I hid the surprise on my…Madeleine’s face.

“Next week,” I answered quickly to cover my confusion.

Colonel Vogel smiled. “Good. I miss his dry humor.” His expression turned to a slight leer for an instant as his eyes wandered to the flesh spilling out the top of my dress. “I’m sure you miss him, too, but maybe for other—”

The colonel’s remark went unfinished as one of the servants announced in a loud voice, “Dinner is served.”

Offering me his arm, Vogel escorted me to the dining room.

A sideboard laden with food sat along one wall, and the various aromas filled the room. Again I thought of the families doing without tonight while Vogel fed his guests a sumptuous meal. Any appetite I had slipped away.

Vogel led me to the head of the table and pulled out the chair on the right. Masking the disdain I felt, I looked down the table, over the expensive china and crystal, at the other
guests. The wine had flowed freely in the salon, and the conversation was becoming louder and louder as they continued to drain their glasses. The din hurt my ears, and I tried blocking it out by concentrating on the courses spread out before me.

Foie de gras followed by rich onion soup; rack of lamb with roasted potatoes; green beans in a heavy cream sauce; thick, crusty bread; cheeses. I picked at the food that was placed in front of me in rapid succession.

Vogel leaned to his right. “Madeleine, aren’t you feeling well?” he asked in a hushed voice.

I grabbed my goblet of water and drank thirstily. Finished, I put the goblet down. “My apologies, Colonel,” I replied, giving him a stiff smile. “The room is becoming rather warm, and—”

With a snap of his fingers, he had a servant scurrying toward the head of the table. “Mademoiselle is warm. Open a window,” he commanded.

“Really, Colonel, that’s not necessary.”

Before the colonel could reply, I heard the officer sitting two chairs away say “Drancy” over the noise. Vogel’s attention immediately shifted from me to the young officer, who quelled at his glare.

“Drancy?” I asked, drawing Vogel’s eyes back to mine.

He waved his hand and let it fall on my wrist. “Don’t concern yourself, my dear.” He shot the young man a last angry look. “It’s merely a holding area for enemies of the Reich, criminals, and malcontents,” he answered, with a hard squeeze.

It was as if I’d been slammed back into my body. I could still feel the pressure of Vogel’s fingers around my—Madeleine’s—wrist. Confused, my eyes roamed my familiar bedroom, searching for reassurance that I was in my own body, in my own time.

Sensing my tension, Lady lifted her head and gave a low
growl from her spot by the window. In the gray light, I saw her coarse, white hair stand in a ridge down her spine.

“Shh,” I whispered. “It’s just me.”

I think it’s just me
. I ran a hand over my face. Yup, my nose, my lips. Taking a strand of hair, I held it in front of my face. Brown, not dark red.
Thank God—I’m Ophelia, not Madeleine
.

Scooting up in bed, I pressed back against the headboard. These dreams were so fantastic, and not in a good way. They left me feeling befuddled and disturbed. Rolling my head toward the window, I noticed that last night’s storm had abated to a fine drizzle. And with it came an oppressive chill.

Rubbing my bare arms, I grabbed a sweatshirt and pulled it on. I followed it with a pair of sweatpants and socks. My mind drifted back to the strange dream. What had ended it so abruptly? Oh, yeah, Vogel had told Madeleine not to be concerned about Drancy. He called it a “holding area”? Did he mean prison? A niggle of curiosity picked at me. Knowing I wouldn’t be satisfied until I looked it up, I went to my office.

One of the officers had kindly tacked plastic sheeting over the broken window to keep the rain out, but it did nothing to keep out the pervasive damp. Stepping over the broken glass, I shut the curtains, hoping it would help, and zipped up my sweatshirt.

A little warmer, I sat at my desk and booted up my computer. Once online, I typed
Drancy
in the search bar. The second search result listed
Drancy internment camp
. In a second I was on the site and skimming the information.

It said Drancy was located northeast of Paris and was originally built as a housing complex but was used as a police barracks. The Nazis converted it to a detention center to hold “undesirables”—Jews, homosexuals, and the Roma people—Gitan, or Gypsies, a term considered somewhat derogatory. The camp was opened in August 1941, when four thousand Jews were sent there. Families were separated and
young children were torn from their mothers’ arms. Children captured by Klaus Barbie in a raid on a children’s home were held at Drancy, too.

Bile rose in my throat as I read the next sentence.

The next stop for the prisoners of Drancy, including all the children: Auschwitz.

Feeling sick, I stumbled to the kitchen to make coffee. Images of children herded into boxcars and sent to gas chambers haunted me. My hands shook as I poured the last spoonful of coffee into the basket, and the grains scattered across the counter. Frustrated, I hit the On button, and grabbing a dishcloth, wiped up the spilled coffee. While I waited impatiently, coffee cup in hand, for the pot to fill, I stared out the window.

Why were these troubling dreams plaguing me? I could see no connection between them and Stephen’s shooting. Pressing on my stomach, I tried to rub the nausea away as I stared at the drizzle running down the kitchen window. The gloomy morning matched my mood. I was more disturbed by the dreams and the images they invoked of lost children than the idea that someone might be trying to kill me.
But,
I argued with myself,
I couldn’t change history, I could only mourn the loss of so many. I need to focus on what was happening now.

“You look bleak.”

Looking over my shoulder, I saw Abby standing in the doorway.

“I am.”

She crossed the kitchen and laid a hand on my shoulder. “We’ll get to the bottom of this,” she said softly.

I didn’t tell her it wasn’t the shooting that made me feel disheartened, but my dreams. I wasn’t ready to ask her advice until I could make more sense of what they might mean.

“You’re right,” I answered, my voice sounding tinny. “I’m just feeling a little lost right now.”

She gave my shoulder a light squeeze. “I take it you’re not planning on going to the library today?” she asked.

“No, I’m going to call Claire and request vacation time.” I looked at the clock. “But first I’m calling Darci and telling her to keep Tink there—not send her to school.” I felt my heart wrench a bit. “Will you call Great-Aunt Mary?”

“Yes. Don’t worry,” she said confidently. “They’ll be pleased to have Tink.”

“Well, then,” I said, accepting the reality of what I had to do. “I’d better check the airline schedule. What airport?”

“The closest one to the mountain is in Asheville, North Carolina.”

Setting my cup on the counter, I hugged myself and stared again at the somber sky. “Tink’s not going to be happy.”

I’d made the understatement of the century. After picking her up at Darci’s, I fended off her questions as best I could and waited until we were home to give her the news that she’d be leaving for the mountains tomorrow.

There’s nothing like a fourteen-year-old pitching a hissy fit.

Tink cried and pleaded to stay, and the histrionics led to the biggest argument we’d ever had. It ended with Tink running upstairs and slamming her bedroom door.

The confrontation left me shaken and almost ready to change my mind, until I saw the patrol car make another slow pass by my house. Tink would have to accept my decision and make the best of it. This time tomorrow she’d be in North Carolina.

I called Abby and finalized the arrangements. A cousin
would pick Tink up at the airport and take her to Great-Aunt Mary’s.

After waiting about an hour to give Tink time to calm down, I went upstairs and knocked on her door.

No answer.

I rapped again, then pushed it half open. Sticking my head in the door, I saw her sprawled facedown across her bed, with T.P. curled protectively next to her.

“We need to talk, sweetie,” I said with a calmness I didn’t feel.

Tink lifted her head and shot me a look over her shoulder. Her eyes were red and puffy, and I felt a pang of remorse. Without a word, she turned and lowered her head.

Okay, maybe you don’t want to talk, but I do.

I crossed the room and sat on the other side of her. Reaching out a hand, I made a move to stroke her hair, but she jerked away.

“I know you’re mad, but this is for your own good.”

She rolled over and scooted up in the bed. She pulled her knees to her chest and wrapped her arms around them. “Who says?”

“Me,” I replied firmly, “and Abby.”

Her face softened for an instant. “Abby?”

“Yes, the trip was her idea.”

Her eyes narrowed and her lips thinned. “I didn’t think
she’d
betray me.”

“Come on, Tink,” I said with a shake of my head. “This isn’t a betrayal. We want to keep you safe.”

“I’m safe here,” she answered mutinously.

“Right,” I scoffed, “with bullets coming through the windows? I don’t think so.”

“So from now on, every time someone threatens you, you’re going to send me to Great-Aunt Mary’s?” She gave a derisive snort. “I might as well move out there.”

I felt my patience running thin. “Tink—”

“It’s the truth.”

The conversation was going nowhere. I needed to take a different tack.

“Yesterday you were excited about meeting Great-Aunt Mary,” I pointed out.

“So?” I heard the mistrust in her voice.

“So…now you’ll have the opportunity to ask her all those questions.”

She thought for a moment. “How long will I have to stay?”

“I don’t know.”

“If it’s until Sheriff Wilson finds the guy who shot at you, it could be forever and ever.”

“It won’t be forever and ever,” I said with a chuckle. “Haven’t we always found out the truth?”

“Yeah.” She tucked her legs under her and leaned forward. “But you’d find the truth faster if I helped.”

A sigh escaped. “We talked about that yesterday—you’re not ready. You need to learn more control.”

Her lip curled. “Great-Aunt Mary can teach me.”

It killed me to say it, but at that point I’d have done anything to get her cooperation. “There you go.” I slapped the bed. “This is your chance to have Great-Aunt Mary train you.”

Damp emanated from the plastered buildings on either side as I walked down the narrow sidewalk. In the street, greasy pools of water gathered between the cobblestones. Passing the alley, I heard the low growl of a dog. I glanced over my right shoulder and saw the scrawny animal curled protectively around a precious bone, gnawing furiously. Spotting me, he jumped to his feet, the bone still in his mouth, and ran deeper into the alley.

Too many people lived too close together in this poor section of Paris. A sense of futility hung in the air. It had been bad before the Germans came, but now, with the food shortages, the occupants here rose every morning only to face another hopeless day.

Paris? Ah, I’m dreaming of Madeleine again.

I felt Ophelia slide away to a corner of my mind.

I stopped in front of a thick oak door, scarred by centuries of use. Looking up, I saw the small stained-glass window depicting the trials of Saint Flora of Beaulieu.

How appropriate—the patron saint of the betrayed, the abandoned—having a church named for her in this section of the city where people lived in such wretchedness.

Feeling the sadness weigh me down, I lifted heavy hands and pulled my scarf tighter around my head. With a shove, I pushed the door open and stepped inside.

The smell of the streets was replaced by air clouded with the smoke of burning incense and beeswax candles. The small stained-glass window and candles provided little light, and it took a moment for my eyes to adjust to the quiet darkness. Slowly, I made my way down the short aisle and took a seat on one of the simple pine pews. Bowing my head, I waited.

I heard soft footfalls coming from behind me and felt the weight of another body join me on the pew. From the corner of my downcast eyes I saw legs encased in black slide next to me. He shifted forward onto the kneeling rail and raised his hands in prayer. I joined him, mimicking his supplication.

“Have you picked up the package yet?” he whispered, not looking at me.

“Not yet. I wanted the key first,” I murmured.

In profile, Brother Sebastian frowned. “It’s getting late. Curfew will be starting—you could be stopped.”

“I have my authorization papers,” I replied confidently.

“Don’t be foolish, Madeleine. Once you have the package, it could be fatal if the police or the Germans stop and question you.”

“All right, tomorrow, then,” I replied, bowing to his wishes.

With a nod, he stuck his hand in the pocket of his cassock,
then withdrew it. Taking my hand in both of his, he pressed a small piece of cold metal into my palm as he whispered a blessing. When he released my hand, my fingers curled around the key. Without a word, he rose and slowly walked down the aisle to the front of the church. He disappeared seconds later through an arched doorway.

I waited a few minutes, then rose myself and left the way I’d come. Opening the door and stepping outside, the bleakness of the streets hit me like a hammer.

I groaned.

My moan wakened me.

Okay, now I’m Ophelia, I thought, combing my hair back from my face and staring at the dark ceiling.

Package? Key? Pulling the blankets up to my chin, I wasn’t surprised. In the last dream, I’d felt Madeleine’s hatred of the Germans, so it made sense that she’d been some kind of courier.

Wait a minute, I was acting as if this actually happened. This was only a dream—the random wanderings of my subconscious.

Wasn’t it?

Shaking my leg nervously, I sat in the airport next to Tink and watched the board announcing the flights. “Do you have your jacket? You know it gets chilly in the mountains at night.”

“Yes.”

I turned my head and studied her. “Do you have enough underwear to last at least a week?”

Her eyes flew wide and she glanced quickly to the right and left. Satisfied that no one had heard me, she looked up at the ceiling. “Jeez…yes.”

Offended by her reaction, I crossed my arms. “For all I know, they’re still using a wringer washer.” Leaning sideways toward her, I said in a hushed voice, “You’re not going to like feeding your undies through it, piece
by piece, while the wringer squeezes out all the soap. I watched Abby do laundry that way when I was a kid. It takes forever.”

“I’ll be okay,” she grumbled.

“What about shampoo and toothpaste?” I asked.

Tink scrubbed her face with her hand. “I’m not going to the moon. They have stores in the mountains.”

“A general store. And they go once a week, on Saturdays. Plus, I doubt the store carries the shampoo you like.”

“I’ll get by.”

I uncrossed my legs and looked down at my watch. The minutes were flying by. Soon I’d be putting her on the plane and sending her hundreds of miles away. I felt torn. My first priority was to keep her safe, but the idea of being separated, even for a short time, hurt. My thoughts flew back to the families I’d read about at Drancy. How did they stand the pain? Many never survived, and those that did might have never learned what happened to their families. How did someone live with that? At least I’d know where Tink was, that she was safe. I could call her whenever I wanted.

Pinching the bridge of my nose, I tried to stop the tears I felt prickling my eyes.

“I’ll call,” I said abruptly, my voice thick.

Tink nudged me with her shoulder. “Quit worrying about me. Now that I think about it, staying with Great-Aunt Mary might be fun. And it’s going to be great to spend time with Aunt Dot again—”

Remembering the trouble the two of them caused during Aunt Dot’s visit, I nudged her back, cutting her off. “Hey, don’t be getting any crazy ideas while you’re out there.”

She giggled. “I won’t.” Her smile fell away. “It’s time.”

The tears sprung to my eyes, and I felt an empty spot form in my heart. Rising, I picked up Tink’s carry-on and followed her to the escalator.

At the top, she turned to me. Violet eyes shimmered. “This is it.”

“Yeah,” I replied, not trusting myself to say more.

“I’ll call as soon as I get there.” A tear trickled down her cheek.

“Great,” I said, touching my own wet cheek. “Be good.” I laid a hand on her smooth face. “Mind your manners, okay?”

She nodded and threw her arms around me, burying her face in my shoulder. Placing my free arm around her, I hugged her to me.

“I love you, Titania,” I said, using her real name as I stroked her hair. “I’m going to miss you.”

“I love you, too,” she said, her voice muffled by my shoulder. “Hurry up and catch the bad guys so I can come home, okay?”

With tears running freely, I nodded.

Stepping back, she took her carry-on and joined the line of passengers waiting to go through security.

Unable to take my eyes off of her, I watched the guard check her ticket and motion her through the scanner. She removed her shoes and placed them, with the bag, onto the conveyer belt. When she’d reached the end, after grabbing her bag and putting on her shoes, she craned her neck trying to spot me.

I gave her one last, weak smile and a wave.

She lifted her hand, and with a thumbs-up vanished in the crowd of departing passengers.