Thirst No. 5 (13 page)

“What condition is Anton in?” I ask.

She shrugs. “He’s okay. We’ve only begun his interrogation.”

“We? I thought you didn’t do such things.”

She pales. There’s so little blood left in her face I cannot see a juicy spot to bite. Naturally, I wish I had time to drink her blood. I’m thirsty and, besides, I enjoy seeing a Gestapo witch up close as she bleeds to death.

“I wasn’t talking about myself,” she pleads. “I like the French. I don’t want to be here. I’m just obeying orders.”

“I’ve heard that line before. Tell me, what is your name?”

She hesitates. “Rika Schnell.”

I lean close. “Do you believe in God, Rika?”

She trembles. “No. Why?”

“I understand your doubts. I think I met him once, long ago, and I still find it hard to believe he exists. But I like to think he does and that he forgives me for what I’m about to do next.” I pause. “Close your eyes, Rika, and be still. You won’t feel a thing.”

She cringes, tears spring from her eyes. “No! Please!”

Her cries, she’s too loud. I cannot let her continue.

Reaching out with both hands, one palm beneath her chin, the other on top of her skull, I jerk her head up and around, through a violent half circle. As I promised, every bone in her neck breaks.

Progress, I tell myself. Now I have a uniform and a room number. After changing into Rika’s clothes at breakneck speed, I prop up her body in the stall and head for the door, listening closely before stepping into the hallway. I have no intention of trying to pass myself off as Lieutenant Rika Schnell but I’m confident I can appear to be the new girl in town.

There’s no one in the hallway. I head back the way I came, searching for the promised stairs, passing two occupied rooms. In the first a German male is grilling a French woman. In the next a man is being pounded with a heavy fist. If not for my fear of being seen from above, I’d put a permanent end to both
interrogations. It’s hard to walk by and do nothing, but I have to stay focused on Anton.

Ten days until Operation Overlord. Lieutenant Frank Darling—my friend and partner on Eisenhower’s staff—has said that’s what the Allies are calling the main invasion. Specifically, Frank said, the attack on the Normandy coast is code-named Operation Neptune. I prefer the latter title, probably because I used to live in Rome when the original Neptune was worshipped.

Rome. The thought of the city reminds me of Harrah. My friend and roommate is obsessed with the city. We’re close, along with her husband, Ralph, and I have entrusted them with the truth of what I am, and how old I am.

Since I confided in them, Harrah has begged me to tell her stories about ancient Rome. A strict Jew who often behaves like a Catholic—she reads the New Testament as often as the Old—she’s also asked me to tell her everything I know about Galilee. But since I never visited the region when Christ was alive—I never heard of him until many years later—I’m unable to satisfy her curiosity.

I reach the stairs and have to force myself to take them one at a time. At the top is another door, but this one leads to a crowded hallway. At least this floor has a reasonable ceiling. My earlier fears were unwarranted—there are numerous female Gestapo. Odd, I think, how I have never seen any on the streets.

I nod to the men who pause to admire me, but keep walking. I see a row of doors marked 1B, 2B, 3B—no
H
s. I must have entered the floor through the wrong door. Yet of the rooms I do pass, prisoners are being beaten and questioned in every one, and to the busy Gestapo, prowling the halls, this all seems quite natural. Inside, my blood boils and so does my hunger for German blood.

Two minutes later I find the corridor for the
H
rooms. Unfortunately, before I reach the sixth door on my left, I’m stopped by a Gestapo major. He’s young, his face so stamped with artifice he could be made of wax. Addressing me as Fräulein—not Lieutenant—he steps directly in my path, giving me no choice but to stop. His eyes remind me of gray marbles; they blatantly scan my curves before fixing on my face. Yet when he speaks I sense a keen mind and caution myself not to hurry with this one. His German is clear and precise.

“Your name, please,” he says.

I give a warm smile. “Lieutenant Hida Blunt, sir. Thank you for stopping for me. I fear I’m lost. I only just arrived at this facility.”

He returns my smile, his lips shining with a thin coat of skin oil. He has just washed and shaved—I smell the soap. He’s probably just come on duty. Despite his age, thirty at most, I sense his aura of command, and suspect he is the man in charge.

“Did your commanding officer not show you around?” he asks.

I gesture to his major strip, acting impressed. “I was told by Rika Schnell you are the man in charge.”

A brisk nod; he’s flattered. “And you wish for your own personal tour?” he asks.

I chuckle softly. “Only when my commander is not on duty and has time.”

He checks out my body again, nodding to himself. “At eight in the morning I will breakfast in my office. Feel free to join me.”

“Is there a name, at breakfast, that the major prefers to be called?” I ask, letting him know that I know why he wants to meet in private.

He stiffens and I fear I might have gone too far. But his voice betrays no suspicion. He gestures to the people down the hall.

“While I walk these halls you will call me Major Klein. But come breakfast time you may call me Karl.”

“Understood, Major Klein.”

He waves a hand. “Dismissed.”

“Thank you, sir.” Stepping around him, I walk directly past 6H and around the corner, feeling his eyes on me the whole time. There I pause, waiting for the sound of his footsteps. He takes a moment before he continues on, a bad sign; he must be thinking, debating. Finally, though, his boot steps are lost among the others.

I return to room 6H and stand near the door. Anton is
inside, I hear his suffering in the ragged rhythm of his breathing. A faint groan escapes my lips and I grimace. His torture is already underway, the Gestapo must be in a hurry. Perhaps other prisoners have pointed the finger at him, told the Nazis of Anton’s importance. It would not require a traitor. The Resistance is made up of brave men and women, but contrary to popular belief, every person has their breaking point.

Something Krishna once said comes back to me.

“Pain is pain, death’s dearest friend. The reason no man lives without fear.”

How true, I think. And how sad that the reverse—“There’s no death without life, no pain without birth.”—is also true. It does not matter to me that my creator, Yaksha, a demon by birth, said the latter. To me he was agreeing with Krishna. After more than five thousand years a part of me still fears to suffer.

How much better it is to seek revenge.

I knock and step through the door before hearing an answer.

A Gestapo man, his coat off, his shirtsleeves rolled up, stands over Anton, who is chained to a chair that’s bolted to the floor. My lover has been stripped naked. Blisters cover his chest, the result of cigarettes extinguished in his flesh. Red welts connect the hideous dots. I need only glance at the car battery on a nearby desk to know their source. An old Nazi favorite—sprinkle the prisoner with water and shock him until he answers, or else faints, whatever comes first. Never mind
the blood smeared over Anton’s body from a broken nose and twenty missing nails. His tormentor has been most thorough; he has not left a finger or toe untouched.

The Gestapo sees my rank and leaps to attention. “Lieutenant!”

I look down at Anton, who stares up and winces. He’s afraid he’s hallucinating. He cannot believe I have come to his rescue, although he, too, knows who I am. In a moment of weakness I told him my secret to keep him faithful. Usually, I’m extraordinarily casual when it comes to sex. But something about Anton makes me jealous of other women. When it comes to love, obviously, the years have taught me nothing.

“What have you learned from the prisoner?” I snap.

The Gestapo grins, his dark mustache dripping sweat. He’s no Hitler, he’s too big and strong, but he gives off the same stink.

“A great deal. He’s been most cooperative.” He pauses. “But I was told to report my findings to Captain Blanch.”

“I’m here on behalf of the captain. Answer my question.”

The man gestures to Anton as if he were an object. “We may have struck gold, if what he says is true. As you know, we have learned from other sources that he’s important to the Resistance. He may even be one of their leaders. None of this is a surprise. What matters are his connections.” He pauses. “I’m convinced he’s in direct contact with the British.”

“You haven’t had him long. What makes you so sure?”

The Nazi’s smile widens. “A place he mumbles when he passes out. A name. A date.”

“Please, you try my patience. Make your point.”

The man stiffens, a flicker of anger passing over his eyes. He hides it quickly. It’s clear he wants credit for what he has leached out of Anton.

“Pas de Calais. Operation Overlord. June eighth.”

I shake my head as if I’m not impressed, but inside I’m relieved. It’s true Anton has revealed the code name; however, he might have done so on purpose. A little truth takes the bitterness from the lies. Despite all he has suffered, Anton has told them exactly what the British would want the Nazis to hear—the wrong location of the invasion. He’s also blurted out a false date, although the insanely unpredictable Channel weather might make it correct. No matter, Anton has planted an important false seed.

“Well?” the Nazi says when I don’t answer.

“Nothing,” I reply, before lashing out with my right hand and striking his left temple. He falls hard to the floor, where he lies unmoving, but he’s still alive. Anton blinks as if he’s finally waking up.

“Kill him,” he says softly in French.

Kissing the top of his head, I kneel beside Anton. I break his wrist and ankle shackles. “No, he lives. We want him to carry your message to his superiors,” I say.

Anton’s hands are suddenly free and he grabs my hand. “If
you kill me and manage to get out of here alive, the message will carry more weight. That will prove to them that what I knew was dangerous.”

“The hell with that. You have done enough for God and country.”

Anton frowns. “Please, Sita, that’s a British saying. Haven’t I been tortured enough?”

Leaning forward, I kiss his lips, tasting his blood. Half his teeth are loose. Most will fall out in the next few days or weeks, if he should get out of here alive.

“You deserve everything they did to you for going to that same café day after day. You must be insane.”

A man screams next door and Anton gestures in my direction. “Look who’s talking. You might be old but you can still be killed. You should have let me be. There’s no way you can get out of here alive, not with me dragging you down.”

“Then you had better get to your feet,” I say, pulling him up. But he’s weaker than I feared and I have to hold him steady. “Quick, take this towel, clean up as best you can. You have to change into the Nazi’s uniform.”

Anton scowls at the unconscious Gestapo. “It will never work. He’s twice my size.”

I grab Anton by his chin and gaze into his eyes. “We leave here together or we don’t leave here at all. I mean it. Pull yourself together.”

He nods but sways in my arms. He gestures for me to let
him sit back down and I let him slip through my arms. He groans in pain as his bare ass hits the seat. At least he takes the towel and begins to wipe his bloody skin.

“I need a minute,” he says.

I fear to linger but he’s right, he needs time. His ribs are swelling a ghastly blue where he’s been repeatedly punched. He might have internal bleeding. Kneeling beside the fallen Gestapo, I begin to undress the man.

“I’ll have this uniform off in a minute,” I say, my tone encouraging. “Then, while you’re dressing, I’ll scout out this floor, maybe the floors above. We’re pretty far underground.”

“You don’t know the way out?” he mumbles.

“I don’t want to go out the way I came in. The last thing anyone will expect is for us to escape through the front door.”

Anton dabs at his bloody nose. “Where are we anyway?”

“Beneath an elementary school at Vigne and Arago.”

Anton sighs. “That is where I went to grade school.”

Two minutes later I leave Anton and creep back into the hallway and head for a nearby flight of stairs. I go up eight flights before I taste fresh air and know I’m at street level. Fortunately, the stairway is not occupied. The Germans appear to stick to their designated floors while on duty.

A surprise greets me when I return to 6H. Anton is fully dressed and leaning against the wall. He has found a fresh towel and is wiping at his hair.

“Am I leaking?” he asks.

“A little.” I take the towel and remove the blood from his ears. I give him another kiss. “If we’re stopped, let me do the talking.”

He’s offended. “My German is as good as yours.”

“Not to another German.”

“Bastards.” He takes a breath and kicks the unconscious man on the floor. “I’ll remember this one,” he says.