Nightingale (22 page)

Chapter 31

What finally rose Yves from his stupor was the news that Allied forces had finally landed in Normandy. A noticeable shift went through Paris, though many refused to believe the news and some feared the Germans were right when they claimed they had repelled the invasion.

Yves saw people in cafes pore over maps of Normandy, and everybody seemed like a coffeehouse general, at least as long as no Germans were around. But to Yves, the Germans looked more nervous, even tetchy, and he couldn’t fault them that, as posters with orders appeared on kiosks that were not from the Kommandantur, but from so-called Resistance leaders.

Yves’s routine was to visit friends, many of them artists, go for long walks through the city, and spend time in cafes, reading books rather than newspapers. Even so, he heard more news than he wanted. Many of his friends fell addicted to news like opium, their eyes feverish when they relayed whatever morsel they’d caught, or discussed the particular slant of an illegal newspaper versus that of the German-controlled radio versus the version of the BBC broadcast. Everybody had turned into an amateur code cracker—reading between the lines, measuring every word, sifting through every small inconsistency to try to divine the truth.

But while the bombings continued, Yves didn’t even hope he’d see the day of liberation. He lived from one meal to the next, sometimes surprised when he awoke, often questioning what good his life was like this. It was out of the question to accept an engagement, and strictly speaking he didn’t need to. Both
Little Kisses
and
I Light A Candle
had made him a modestly rich man, and he kept hearing both songs, although he did his best to avoid them. Still, people recognized him on the street and asked him to sign photos, and he promised he’d sing again and said he was working on new songs, which made their eyes light up.

In truth, he hadn’t written anything in months, but he could feel a stirring again, a song that was trying to come together out of several parts. It wasn’t one of those almighty songs that simply came out, but he liked the feel and sound of it, so he started kicking it around. It wasn’t a stroke of genius, so much as simply work that he showed up for and that would eventually help round out a bracket. And maybe that was all he could ever really hope for—to take the inspiration and talent and work at it diligently when there was none of that elusive genius to be found.

He spent a little more time with Heinrich, though the German seemed more worried and tense than Yves had ever seen him. But whenever Yves asked, Heinrich sighed and told him everything was fine, that the game wasn’t over yet. And as the Allied advance slowed in Normandy, Yves was inclined to believe him.

Overall, their relationship had cooled since Yves’s extended stay with Madeleine. He didn’t miss the intimacy, but it was strange that Heinrich kept his distance, and he sometimes wished he could care about Heinrich in that way and encourage his former advances, but he didn’t.

With Édith dead and Falk gone, his heart felt too sore and heavy to allow much in the ways of emotions, and he sometimes just sat among the graves at Père Lachaise to get away from it all, imagining that this grave or that was Édith’s, and sometimes he brought flowers. He tried to imagine another one was Falk’s, but he couldn’t. He still preferred to think Falk had left and would find somebody else after the war, rather than imagine him dead. It was especially bad when he saw a tall blond German soldier anywhere in a crowd or on his own—he always hesitated, always his heart jumped, and he always had a little hope. As long as his heart could feel like that, Yves supposed he wasn’t all dead inside.

It was late July and they were having lunch near the Ritz when Heinrich’s aide rushed toward their table. “
Herr Oberst
, your presence is required immediately.”

Heinrich frowned. “What happened?”

The aide’s lips tightened. “I cannot say in public, sir.”

Heinrich placed the napkin on the table and stood. Yves stood with him, but Heinrich shook his head. “Enjoy the meal, as it’s already ordered. Hopefully I will join you later. What about Maxim’s?”

Yves nodded and couldn’t help looking at the aide, whose cheeks were blotched with suppressed agitation. “I’d like that.”

“Good.” Heinrich turned away and left. Before the food even arrived, several more officers were called back, to the great, but polite puzzlement of everybody else.

When the food arrived, Yves looked up at the waiter. “Could you pack this up and send it to Oberst von Starck’s office?”

“Of course. Though he may not find any time to eat,” the waiter said, his voice low.

“Because?”

“The news is, Hitler has been assassinated.”

Yves stared at the waiter, but it couldn’t possibly be a joke if all around him, the lunch companions of some of the most senior German officers in Paris were being abandoned. The waiter tried in vain to suppress his emotions—his eyes were a little too wide, his lips too close to an outright smile, though they were in a place that had profited handsomely from the German presence. Or maybe the waiter didn’t care who knew how he felt.

“How do you know?”

“One of the other waiters heard it.” The waiter fussed with Heinrich’s plate.

Yves looked around, but there were no Germans left now. Heinrich’s words came back to him, about how some men had had enough, but had that been Heinrich’s usual clear-sightedness, a prophecy, or something more? And what would the Germans do now that their leader was dead? From what Yves knew, there were sufficient fanatic Nazis to replace Hitler a thousand times over. And yet, none of those had quite the same amount of power. Maybe the whole structure would come down. Would it end the war? Or would it lead to an even more determined iron grip on Europe and an orgy of blood and death in vengeance? With people like von Grimmstein around, that question had an easy answer.

Yves barely managed to force himself to stay and eat the food, but the alternative was to go home and try to concentrate on work, or to roam the streets and try to snap up news that might all be hearsay. Apart from Heinrich, he knew nobody who could possibly know the truth, and he wasn’t sure if Heinrich would share what he knew. He couldn’t trust the German radio, and the newspapers might or might not carry the story tomorrow. The BBC?

He finished his meal and went for a walk, and everywhere he saw the same kind of furtive relief, but no open celebrations. It was like awaking to a strange season after years of winter. Nobody dared hope it was over, but everybody knew it was different.

* * *

The next morning, Heinrich came to Yves’s flat, and when Yves opened, he immediately spotted the bundle under Heinrich’s arm. More canvases. Whenever Heinrich had gone on leave home to Germany, he’d taken several of the canvases with him, never to be seen again. But of course, he wasn’t the only German who bought works of art in Paris and took them home.

“Yves. Hello. Can I come in a moment?”

“Of course.” Yves opened the door further, and Heinrich stepped through. “I’m sorry I didn’t return yesterday—the matter was more complicated than I thought.”

“I’d think so, if Hitler truly is dead.”

Heinrich froze, then his shoulders sagged. “It proved to be a false alarm. That is, a bomb went off, but he was only lightly injured.” He added nothing else, and his tone was carefully neutral, which said everything Yves needed to hear.

“Were you . . . did you know it was going to happen?”

Heinrich lifted his eyebrows and took the canvases from under his arm, placing them where he’d put the last bundle. “Could you keep these for me?”

“Of course.” Yves took a step forward and noticed how gray Heinrich looked. Gray and exhausted. “Are they more Brasches?”

Heinrich nodded.

“More war scenes?”

“Yes.” Heinrich glanced down at them, almost fondly. “You’ve seen them?”

“I was curious.”

“Not very pretty, I know.” He took one of his hands in the other and began kneading it. “They are not exactly decorative. Nor do current authorities like them very much.”

“I’ve seen German officers in jazz cellars, too.” Yves took another step closer. “Who was this
Monsieur
Brasche? To you?”

Heinrich took a deep breath. “You wouldn’t recognize his art if you saw the watercolor he gave me before the first war. It hangs on the wall in my study at home. I was surprised to find a large amount of his paintings in Paris, and to see how much he’d changed in between. But we all did. The eyes that watched him paint the watercolor are not the same eyes that spotted his signature on a consignment meant for destruction. They burned a lot of paintings, Yves, but I wouldn’t let them burn these.”

“Who?”

Heinrich shook his head. “The guardians of our purity. Very often men too young to have seen what Johann and I saw. I recognized the landscapes, even the angles. We saw both from the same trench, in the same season, in the same mindset, if you will. He sometimes said that those views destroyed his ability to do landscapes. Looking at a splintered ruin of a tree, he said all the trees in his mind were similarly destroyed. That he’d never again find a healthy tree in his mind, however much he’d look.”

Yves shuddered at the idea. “Who was he?”

“Johann was a close friend, and he saved my life. He led the party that found me before the enemy did.” Heinrich balled his hands into fists. His eyes were clear, but he wasn’t looking at Yves or anything in particular. “He received an Iron Cross for bravery. We lost contact after the war, but I knew he’d always wanted to go to Paris to study modern art and live among artists. I expected to find him here, but I didn’t. I expect he left before they began deporting foreign-born Jews.” Heinrich shook his head. “I didn’t know he was Jewish. He didn’t tell me; it didn’t seem to matter to him. And with an Iron Cross, it should never have mattered.” Heinrich drew another deep breath and blinked, then looked again at Yves. “Keep these for me, will you?”

“Why aren’t you taking them home?”

“Because I’m not going home.” Heinrich stopped kneading his hand and let them drop to his sides. “Considering all the confusion that the incident caused, Berlin has summoned General von Stülpnagel and his staff. We’re travelling today.” He glanced back at the paintings. “And few people in Berlin appreciate modern art.” He gave a weak smile, but his tone was so flat that Yves couldn’t decide whether this was, indeed, an attempt at a joke. After everything, he didn’t know Heinrich well enough to determine this with any authority, and what was worse, he’d never really asked. He knew this man’s taste in music, art and literature, but knew very little otherwise.

“Where should I send them?”

“There’s an address written on the paper. Post them only after everything is done. It might be a few months or years.”

“To your wife?”

Heinrich nodded.

“I’ll do it.”

“Thank you.” Heinrich let go of a deep breath, then checked his watch. “Well, the driver will be waiting. I’ve left my aide in charge of my office. He is instructed to deal with everything else.”

It was vague, but Heinrich didn’t volunteer anything more.

“If there’s one thing I regret, it’s that we had to release the SS and SD again after having secured them for a few hours. I would have loved to see von Grimmstein hang.” Again, flat tone, but steely and determined. “Speaking of which—since he is free again, and I don’t know how things will end up in Paris, I have one last thing for you.” He opened the pistol holster at his belt, pulled out the Luger, and offered it to Yves, grip forward. “I might not be able to protect you in person if a civil war does break out. I want you to be safe. And sing, if you can, because your voice . . . there’s a myth where the nightingale sings to console the dead . . . and before everything is over, Europe will be a charnel house. We need all the nightingale songs we can get.” He stepped closer and briefly, briskly, embraced Yves, who was too surprised to immediately respond but then closed his arms around Heinrich.

“In my own way,” Heinrich said softly at Yves’s ear. “I was terribly fond of you.
Au révoir
.”

And with that, he left.

Chapter 32

On one of his walks, Yves found himself near a hospital. Ambulances were bringing in wounded soldiers—covered in dirt and blood, some silent, others wailing—many of them, dozens, maybe a hundred or more. He stopped on the pavement as orderlies pulled stretchers from the ambulances, their drivers barely waiting for the stretchers to clear before they drove off. One orderly splashed a bucket of water into an empty ambulance, washing out pink water and used bandages. In the August heat, the smell was that of an abattoir.

The fighting was close now, close enough to bring the wounded into Paris, and Yves understood that another Allied army had landed in southern France. He was beginning to believe the rumors, was beginning to hope for liberation, and also began to fear what it meant. Heinrich had expected a civil war, and that seemed likely. The next time he passed this hospital, it might be full of Frenchmen who’d fought Frenchmen.

He walked closer, struck by the scene before him. These were possibly the same soldiers who had marched down the Champs-Élysées every day, kissed their French mistresses, and taken photographs of the Eiffel Tower. Now, they lay broken on stretchers in a city that had never wanted them. Above all, Yves noticed how young they were, and some were beautiful, while others lay mangled and unrecognizable.

His heart nearly stopped when they unloaded another man, the SS runes on his collar, and his blond, dirty hair, his face turned away. For a hot-cold moment it seemed it was Falk, had to be Falk, though the thought that Falk would be wounded in the defense of France seemed like a perverse irony.

Yves hurried closer, and nobody seemed to mind or warn him away. He needed to get on the other side and see the German’s face, because everything else about him—the rank insignia, the dirt-encrusted boots, the uniform, and his rust-colored hands clutching a wet wound in his side—looked exactly like those of thousands before him. But just as Yves had made his way halfway around to where he might see his face, the orderlies marched the man through the gate, and Yves hesitated to follow. What excuse did he have to want to identify a wounded soldier?

* * *

By some secret signal, barricades began springing up all over Paris. Parisians were felling trees to block the roads; others were using cars, furniture, park benches, and even doors to create fortifications along streets and on crossings and ripping open the cobblestone roads.

Apart from those putting up the barricades—even children were helping—there were almost no people out. And rumors were flying again—about German tanks and hostages being rounded up in retaliation. Last time Paris had fallen without a battle, but this time it looked like it might not be so lucky.

Yves now never left the flat without Heinrich’s pistol, though he kept it hidden. Maurice had ribbed him about it, but then, Maurice barely left his villa at all, and he’d even temporarily closed the Palace, “until the situation was clearer.” Yves teased him about getting his menus changed from German to English, but Maurice didn’t take the bait, which meant it was probably already done.

On one walk through the city, he heard gunfire in front of him. It was impossible to tell whether there was a front line or along where it ran, so Yves stopped and listened, heart beating into his throat. Apart from that sound, the city was silent. Then the sound of engines and a metallic rattling and grinding that he’d have recognized in a thousand nightmares. Tanks.

He stumbled backwards. Tanks would go through the barricades as if they didn’t exist. And as the
résistants
didn’t have tanks, it was now very clear he’d been moving toward the Germans.

A truck rounded the corner, and Yves realized too late that it was a German military transport. It slowed near him, and a soldier jumped out of the cab. Now Yves wished he’d taken Maurice’s advice to stay indoors and wait until it was all over—whichever way the decision went. It didn’t seem right that of all the Germans, von Grimmstein would still be left in Paris, hale and alive.

Somebody asked a question from inside that truck, but von Grimmstein merely waved impatiently forward, and the truck rolled a bit further, then slowed to a crawl.

Von Grimmstein moved so quickly and decisively that Yves didn’t manage to get out of his way. The man’s hand closed around his throat, and Yves was pushed back until his shoulder blades hit a wall.

“I thought I recognized you.” Von Grimmstein’s face came so close Yves worried for a flash that the man might attempt to kiss him. “I was going to visit, but I have been busier than expected, squashing your little rebellion.”

Yves shook his head and put a hand on von Grimmstein’s, tried to pull it away from his throat. “Please.” He had no doubt that von Grimmstein had the strength to simply crush his throat—and there was nobody around who could or would help him.

“Please what?”

“Let me go.”

Von Grimmstein scoffed and squeezed harder until Yves felt his pulse pound up into his head. “So you can do what? Join your terrorist friends?”

“I had nothing to do with any of that.” Yves swallowed hard against the pressure.

“Despite your sister? And running away after we captured her cell?”

“I was never a part of it . . . people recognize me.”

“That’s not what Améry Lemaire told me.” Von Grimmstein again stepped closer, their bodies brushing from chest to knees, and Yves cringed. “He said you were helpful but too much of a coward to do more than hand out fliers with your sister.”

“A man might say anything under torture.”
I would.

Von Grimmstein smirked, and this close, Yves smelled his breath. “We only roughened him up afterward to make his story more believable. He sold his whole group without so much as any of us laying a hand on him. Surprised? Well, yes, if you put your faith into men like that, you would be.”

“I don’t believe it.”

“Well, just see who’s alive and who’s dead or in prison.” Von Grimmstein’s lips quirked into a lopsided smile. “I did give you too much credit, maybe, the way you approached von Starck.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“You befriended him.” Von Grimmstein’s voice was entirely neutral, and Yves prayed that the man had no clue just how their friendship had played out. “Won him for the cause of the so-called Free French.”

“I’m a singer,
Monsieur
. Not a terrorist.”

“And yet you still corrupted his faith in his orders, in the destiny of Germany.”

Yves shook his head against the gloves. “We only spoke about art. France.” The last word might have been a mistake, because von Grimmstein’s eyes flashed. “He didn’t ever voice doubts or . . . appear anything less than loyal. He enjoyed listening to me. And encouraged me. I’m just a singer.”

Von Grimmstein’s grip turned into a vise, and he drew close enough to whisper in Yves’s ear. “Not much longer, you aren’t.”

Pain mixed with terror lanced through Yves, the fear just as bad as when he’d felt the earth shake from the impact of German shells. He managed to squeeze his hand in between his back and the wall behind him and reach the holster with Heinrich’s gun.

Von Grimmstein added his free hand to the grip, and Yves felt tears well up in his eyes. His vision was graying out just as he managed to pull the gun and stab it in von Grimmstein’s side. At first, the man didn’t seem to notice and kept squeezing. But Yves, feeling himself passing out, pushed harder and a bit higher, and that was enough to get von Grimmstein to back off so suddenly that Yves thought he might fall now that he was no longer being propped up.

Von Grimmstein took several steps back, and Yves managed to keep the gun trained on him while he blinked the tears from his eyes.

“That’s a German pistol.”

Yves rubbed his throat with his free and hand nodded, not quite trusting his ability to utter words. But at least his face didn’t feel cold anymore, the primal fear of impending death now replaced by a different kind—that he not only held a gun, but was pointing it at a German officer. Men had been killed for much less in the last few years. His instinct was to drop it and run, but von Grimmstein might outrun him—the truck with his soldiers certainly would. And wouldn’t it be ironic to die now, on the eve of liberation?

“Von Starck gave you that, didn’t he?”

Yves didn’t respond. He didn’t trust his voice, nor his conviction. He took a step sideways but lifted the pistol higher when von Grimmstein, apparently fearless, mirrored the movement.

Von Grimmstein didn’t even raise his hands, just faced him down across the barrel. “You know what happened to him, don’t you?”

“No,” he whispered. The sense of foreboding got worse.

“But you heard the Führer’s broadcast? Where he spoke of an assassination attempt? We’ve been busy rounding up conspirators. Apparently I should have talked to you, too, considering my hunch was right and von Starck was a traitor.”

Yves shook his head. Impossible. Just because he’d shown a bit of humanity—

“He confessed and they strung him up on a piano wire like a piece of meat.” Von Grimmstein smiled. “Are you going to shoot me or not? I have a rebellion to deal with.”

Yves stared at the pistol for a moment, then back at von Grimmstein’s cold face.

He’d never fired a gun in anger, to his knowledge had never killed a man. He held the pistol like a talisman, warding off a demon. But shoot von Grimmstein?

He deserved it. He had blood on his hands, was dripping with it, and his arrogance and superiority and gloating only made it worse. If he’d begged for his life, shown remorse or even a shred of humanity, Yves knew he couldn’t shoot him.

But even like this, with everything that had happened, even though he was scared of what von Grimmstein would do to him if he didn’t use the advantage he had now. Or what von Grimmstein would do to any Frenchman he suspected of being involved in the uprising.

Von Grimmstein took another step back, and his grin turned into a snarl. “And this, Yves Lacroix, is the reason you and your kind will never be free.”

He turned around. And maybe it was that last threat—or maybe the fact that he wasn’t facing Yves anymore, and all Yves now saw was a uniformed shoulder and neck and not that hatred in his eyes. Yves felt himself grow cold. The creeping humiliation and fear froze and shattered.

“You’re wrong.” His voice was little more than a croak.

Von Grimmstein turned around, eyebrow lifted in mockery, but his hand was already on the way to his own pistol holster.

Yves squeezed the trigger. Von Grimmstein jerked to the side, clutching his torso. Yves pulled the trigger again and hit him again before he could even grasp a clear thought. The shots deafened him, the shock of the recoil travelling through him, and seeing von Grimmstein crumble before him was at once terrible and satisfying.

He heard the truck go into reverse gear. Thankfully, he knew the area well, so he turned and ducked into the next street, running as fast as he could. He jumped over a felled tree but was terrifyingly aware that the street was wide enough for the truck to simply race past on the other side. He was looking around for an open doorway or a smaller, darker alleyway when the truck rounded the corner.

A rifle shot rang out, and Yves thanked whoever had built Paris’s cobblestoned roads—getting a clean shot was near impossible while the truck was moving. And if it was meant as a warning shot, he already knew too well what would happen if they caught him.

He ran along the street, the truck roaring behind him.

Just then, he heard a shout from above. Something was flung out of one of the windows, and several more objects hit the truck and the pavement—and burst, spitting flames and engulfing the truck. The Molotov cocktails had been fashioned from old Champagne bottles, now served in a manner the Germans weren’t accustomed to.

The Germans piled out of the truck, and just then, windows all around them opened, and rifles and pistols took aim. Yves stumbled onward and took cover behind a nearby barricade, his heart ready to burst, his throat tight and raw. He didn’t look, just listened to the sounds, felt the hot breeze from the burning car, and noticed he was shaking. He wouldn’t be any good in the fight in that state.

When it was over and no more shots rang out, he peered past the barricade. Men were emerging from the houses on either side, all of them wearing the Cross of Lorraine on armbands. They moved quickly to seize whatever weapons the Germans were carrying—pistols, rifles, and all ammunition they could find.

One came toward Yves. “Are you all right?”

Yves dusted himself off and nodded. “Thank you. You . . .” He glanced at the truck, then tucked the pistol away.

The
résistant
frowned and peered at him. “Are you—?”

“Yes.” Yves rubbed his throat. “Is there anything I can do? Help?”

“Oh no. Mother would never allow that.” The young man stepped closer and offered his hand. “Benoît. You used to sing at my mother’s at Chez Martine.”

“How is she? And Nicholas?”

“Both will be much better once this is over.” Benoît peered over at his compatriots. “We have to get out of here.”

“Can I join you?”