Thirst No. 5: The Sacred Veil Page 10

  I nod to the men who pause to admire me, but keep walking. I see a row of doors marked 1B, 2B, 3B—no Hs. 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 m
y 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.

  “Let’s go.” Taking him by the arm I pull him toward the door. Before opening it, I listen for passing boots. It’s always boots with the Nazis, never shoes. There’s a rare lull outside and I hurry Anton into the hallway, and from there into the stairway.

  Anton can stand, he can walk, but he can’t climb. Three steps from the bottom and he collapses in my arms. He’s still awake but his legs aren’t working. I don’t have time for a pep talk. Throwing him over my shoulder, I begin the long climb to ground level.

  The pressure is intense. Rika’s dead body in the restroom . . . the unconscious Gestapo in room 6H . . . the combination of the two has set a clock ticking inside my head. Anton is right—it’s foolish of me to try to rescue him.

  Before the advent of modern weapons it wouldn’t have mattered. I could storm any fortress without fear. Swords, spears, arrows—none of them could harm me. But bullets fired into my head or heart, grenade shrapnel sprayed in my face, bazooka shells exploding in my back—all these new toys can end my life. And the reality is, I’m not used to having to worry about dying. I’m not used to fear. It’s a novel sensation but that does not make it a pleasant one.

  “You make an excellent mule,” Anton says as we wind up the stairs.

  “You calling me a jackass?”

  “I’m trying to tell you that I love you.”

  “That’s sweet. Now, we’re almost to ground level. Tell me you can stand.”

  “I can stand,” he says.

  Once again I smell the fresh air, even hear the birds chirping outside. I have been inside longer than I planned—it must be near dawn. Propping Anton against a wall, I peer out the first-floor door and search for the main entrance. I see it only fifty feet away, but between us and freedom are eight armed guards. Unfortunately, they are spread out, and I estimate I can only take out five or six before the remaining two or three will start shooting.

  I quietly close the door and explain the situation to Anton.

  “We’re screwed,” he says.

  “Shh! You just told me how great your German is.”

  “I lied.”

  “Stay upright, please, act normal,” I say, straightening his collar and coat. “I outrank anyone in our path. If they stop and question us, no matter what I say, just keep walking toward the door. All we have to do is get to the street and we’ll be safe.”

  “What if someone sounds the alarm?”

  “No one is going to sound the alarm,” I say.

  Synchronicity sure can be a bitch.

  The alarm suddenly goes off.

  On the other side of the door, I hear the guards leap to attention and cock their rifles. The front door slams shut and a thick steel bolt is thrown. Throughout the building the alarm brays like a wounded animal. Below us I hear a stampede of boots—more guards preparing to shoot. What the hell, the guards are only half our problem. Every Gestapo officer in the building has a sidearm.

  Anton looks at me and shrugs. “I’m not going to tell you I told you so,” he says.

  “Shut up.”

  “Do you have a backup plan?”

  “Quiet! I’m thinking!” Obviously Anton’s interrogator or Rika has been found. Yet the Nazis do not appear to know where we are. People are running left and right but they lack direction. Also, the Gestapo have not sent anyone to reinforce the main entrance. That seems to be a blunder on their part until I remember the three soldiers, and their machine gun, on the roof of the building. Clearly the Germans have faith no one is going to get past them.

  However, I see the boys on top as a possible boon.

  I grab Anton and throw him back over my shoulder.

  “Hey!” he cries as we continue up the stairs. “You’re going the wrong way.”

  “We have friends upstairs. Maybe,” I say, taking five steps at a time.

  “Why maybe? Are they on our side or not?”

  “They’re not Gestapo,” I say.

  Anton is quick. “Interesting.”

  We run into a single guard on our way to the roof. I knock him out with a stiff blow to the face and take his sidearm and rifle. We pass through an attic loaded with small arms and ammunition. Before we exit into the fresh air, I set Anton down. He insists I give him the rifle.

  “I don’t have your hands and feet,” he says.

  “Don’t shoot them.”

  “What if they shoot at us?”

  “Shh.” I crouch beside the door, open it a crack, peer outside. The three young men have prepped their machine guns and are peering down at the wired yard and brick wall that surround the school. Yet they don’t appear to give a damn about the alarm that shakes the rest of the building. They continue to talk about their girls back home.

  Anton gives me a look and shrugs. It’s up to me, he’s saying.

  I push the door open and in a single leap I’m standing behind the nearest soldier with my gun pressed to the back of his skull. Bent over the machine gun, the other two have to turn and look up to see me. Their eyes swell in fear and one reaches for his sidearm.

  “Easy, boys,” I say in German. “No one has to get hurt here. My friend and I—this is my lover, Anton—just want to get out of here alive. But we need your help.”

  They take time to digest my words. The guy with my gun to his head trembles, and I pat him on the back and tell him to relax. But I do not take the gun away. His buddies stare at me as if I’m some kind of supernatural creature, which is actually pretty perceptive on their part. The one with his finger on the machine gun, which is pointed toward the gate, finally speaks.

  “Are you the reason the alarm has sounded?” he asks.

  “Yes,” I say.

  “Are you German?” he asks.

  “I’m neither French nor German. But to be honest, I am working with the Allies.”

  He shakes his head. “Then we can’t let you go.”

  “Why not?” I smile. “I’ve been listening to you
boys talk for some time. I know all you care about is getting home alive to your girls. I know you despise Hitler and all he stands for. Why not let us escape?”

  “We’ll be punished. Executed,” he says.

  “Not if you play it right. Off to your left is the facility entrance. It’s manned with guards. Off to your right is the gate. It’s locked, bolted with a thick board. You have a clear shot at both sites. You can choose your fate.”

  “I don’t understand,” the guy says. Although, previously, he was the one who talked the least of the three, it’s clear he’s their leader. He’s a cool customer, he talks as if we’re having lunch at a café.

  “You can see my friend has been tortured. He’s not in good shape. But I’m in incredible shape. I’m probably the greatest athlete you’ve ever met. In the next two minutes, I’m going to creep down the slope of this roof and leap into the yard. My friend will be on my back. What I need you to do is—when we land—open fire on the entrance. You don’t have to kill anyone, just spray the porch with a hundred rounds or so. That will drive back the guards. Then turn your machine gun on the gate. Cut the board to pieces. That way we can run out into the street and escape.”

  “You have someone waiting for you?” the soldier asks.

  “Yes,” I lie.

  He shakes his head. “It’s three floors to the yard. The jump could kill you.”

  “I’ve done it before carrying a lot more weight. Please, it’s a simple plan and I promise you won’t get in trouble. You can always tell your superiors that you saw us rushing toward the entrance before we turned and ran toward the gate. No one will contradict your story because no one will see what really happens. Once you open fire on the entrance, they will all hit the floor and huddle in the corners.” I pause. “Do what I say and both of us will win.”

  “What if we refuse?”

  I smile casually and cock my pistol. “I will shoot the three of you in the head. Now. And make no mistake, you will be dead before you can get off a shot. Remember how easily I snuck up on you. I’m faster than I look.”

  Their leader considers before he looks to his partners, who nod enthusiastically. Still, he is troubled. “I can give you my word we will do what you ask,” he says. “But once you leap into the yard, you’re at our mercy. We can mow you down in seconds.”