The Ring (25 page)

Fr+nulein?

The old man had seen the ring but he found it difficult to believe that she was really married. She looked so young. Perhaps she had worn it for protection. Not that it would protect her from the soldiers or that she needed that kind of protection from him. He smiled gently at her as she pulled her little bundle off the seat.

Thank you, sir. She looked at him for a long, empty moment.

You'll be all right? She nodded in answer. Would you like a ride back from Neunkirchen in a few days? I'll be going back to Marburg. But she would not be going back again. For her it was strictly a one-way journey and her eyes were filled with the tragedy of last good-byes.

Quietly she shook her head. I'm going to stay with my mother. Thank you. She didn't want to admit to him that she was trying to flee the country. She trusted no one now. Not even this old man.

Bitte. She shook his hand politely, stood back, and he drove off. Now all she had to do was to get the twenty miles to Saarbr++cken, and then another ten miles to the French border and she'd be all right. But this time there was no old man driving, and it took her three long days to make the trek. Her legs were aching, she was tired and cold and hungry. She had run out of food on the first day. Twice she had seen frightened farmers; one had given her two apples, the other had only shaken his head. But at last she reached the border, six days after her journey had begun. She had done it ' done it ' done it ' All she had to do was crawl through the wire and into France. She did it slowly, with her heart pounding, wondering if someone would see her and shoot her on the spot. But it seemed as though the war was truly over no one cared if one filthy, exhausted young girl in a torn skirt and sweater crawled through the wire, scratching her face and arms and body. Ariana looked around in exhaustion and murmured, Welcome to France, before she lay down to rest.

She awoke some six hours later, to the sound of church bells pealing, her body aching and agonizingly stiff. For the girl who had lived under her father's kind wing in Grunewald and then under Manfred's protection for the past eight months, this was not what she had been prepared for. She began walking again and it was half an hour later that she fainted on the road. An old woman found her two hours later and thought that she was dead. Only a slight stirring beneath the sweater, as her heart beat softly still, led the old woman to wonder, and she hurried home to find her daughter-in-law, and together they dragged her inside. They touched and they prodded and they held her and when she awoke at last she vomited horribly, and she ran a fever for the next two days. At times they thought that she would die there with them. All the old woman knew about the girl was that she was German, for she had found the German gun and the Reichsmarks among the currency she carried. But the old woman did not hold it against her; her own son had gone to work for the Nazis in Vichy four years before. One did what one had to in wartime, and if this girl was running now, the old woman was willing to help her. The war was over, after all. They nursed her for two more days while she lay and vomited, and then at last Ariana insisted that she was well enough to go. She spoke to them in their own language, and with her cultured accent and fluent knowledge of French, she could just as well have been from Strasbourg as Berlin.

The old woman looked at her wisely. Do you have far to go?

Paris.

That's more than two hundred miles. You can't walk the whole way, you know. Not in the condition you're in. Already Ariana was showing signs of malnutrition and she figured she must have gotten a concussion when she'd fallen, else she wouldn't have vomited so violently or had so much pain afterward in her eyes. And she looked some ten years older than she had when the Journey had begun.

I can try. Someone may give me a ride.

In what? The Germans took all our cars and trucks, and what they didn't take, the Americans did. They're all stationed in Nancy, and they've already been up this way to get more cars. But her daughter-in-law remembered that the old priest was going up to Metz at nightfall. He had a horse he used for his travels. And if Ariana was lucky, he'd give her a ride. As it turned out, Ariana was lucky, and the priest took her along.

They reached Metz by morning, and after the long hours of jolting over the countryside, Ariana was desperately sick again. Too sick to eat, too sick to move, she had to nonetheless. From Metz she had to get another forty miles to Bar-le-Duc. She set out once again, walking, this time praying that someone in a truck would come along, and after the first four miles her prayers were answered a man with a horse cart happened by. He was neither old nor young. Neither hostile nor friendly. She flagged him down, offered some French money, and climbed into his cart. For hours she sat beside him, with the spring sun beating down on her head, as the man sat beside her in silence and the horse plowed on. It was sunset when the man finally halted.

Are we at Bar-le-Duc? Ariana looked at him in surprise, but he shook his head firmly.

No, but I'm tired. And so is my horse. As it so happened, she was also exhausted, but she was anxious to continue on. I'll stop for a while and rest, and then we continue. It's all right with you? She didn't have much choice in the matter. He had already spread his jacket out on the ground and was preparing to devour some bread and cheese. He ate it hungrily and roughly, offering none to Ariana, who felt too tired and sick to eat, let alone watch him eat. She lay down quietly on the grass some distance from him, her head on her precious bundle, and she closed her eyes. The grass was soft and warm beside her from the bright May sun that had pounded down on it all day, and she felt herself doze off in exhaustion. It was then she felt the man put his hand up her skirt. He grabbed her roughly, letting himself down hard on top of her, at the same time pushing up her skirt and pulling at her pants, while in astonishment she pushed at him, fighting wildly and flailing at his face with bath her hands. But he was indifferent to her lack of interest in his seduction; he pushed hard at her with his hands and body, and then with something hard and warm she felt pulsing between her legs, and then just before he could enter her there was a stirring, a shout, and a shot fired in the air. The man jumped back, startled and, much to his chagrin, folly exposed. Ariana quickly leaped to her feet and then stumbled suddenly as a wave of dizziness overtook her and she almost fell. Two strong hands took hold of her shoulders and she was gently set back on the ground.

Are you all right? She hung her head and nodded, not wanting to see his face, and also not wanting him to see hers. The voice that had saved her spoke to her in English, and she knew that now she had reached the Americans' hands, Thinking that she didn't understand him, he spoke to her then in awkward French, She forced herself not to smile at him when finally she looked up. It seemed funny that he so easily believed her French.

Thank you. He had a friendly face and lots of soft brown hair, curled beneath a helmet, and in the distance she could see three more men and a jeep.

Did he tart you? he asked her firmly, and she shook her head. Without discussing matters further, the young American in the helmet took a long swing and hit the Frenchman squarely in the face, That ought to take care of him. , What pissed him off was that they were always being accused of raping the locals, when in point of fact the sons of bitches were raping the own. And then he looked down at the tiny blond girl again as she stood up and shook the grass and dust from her fine gold hair Do you need a ride somewhere?

Yes She smiled weakly. To Paris. It was crazy even to be standing here talking to him.

Would you settle for Ch+olons-sur-Marne? It's about a hundred miles outside Paris, and from there I ought to be able to find someone to drive you the rest of the way.

Was it possible he would help her get to Paris? She stared at him? as tears rolled down her cheeks.

Okay? Would that help? His eyes were gentle and his smile widened as she nodded her head. Come on, over here.

The Frenchman was still dusting himself off as Ariana followed the American to the jeep. They were young and raucous and happy as they drove along, the four young men staring curiously at silent Ariana, crushed between them; their eyes would touch on the gold hair, the delicate face, the sad eyes, and then they would shrug and go on talking, or now and then break into an off-color song. The young man who had saved her from the Frenchman wore the name Henderson on the pocket of his fatigues, and it was he who arranged for two other soldiers to drive her into Paris, an hour after they arrived at Ch+olons. You'll be okay with them, miss, he reassured her in his clumsy French and put out a hand.

Thank you, sir.

You're welcome, ma'am. She turned to follow tike two soldiers, who were driving to Paris on some mission that involved two colonels who apparently sent each other messages at least three times a day. But it wasn't of the colonels that Henderson was thinking. He was thinking of the look of despair and desperation that he had seen in that tiny pale face. He had seen that look before in wartime. And he knew something else from looking at that face with the sunken blue eyes, the taut skin, the dark circles. That girl was sick as hell.

The two young American soldiers explained to Ariana that they were going to an address on the rue de la Pompe. Did she know where she was going? She pulled out the paper Manfred had given her. The address was on the rue de Varenne.

I think that's on the Left Bank, but I'm not sure. As it turned out, it was. Paris was also showing signs of the war, but it was in no way as shocking as Berlin had been. More than damage by bombs, Paris had suffered at the hands of the Germans, who had attempted to remove everything available and ship it back to the Pinakothek in Berlin.

An old man with a bicycle explained to the two young soldiers where it was Ariana wanted to go and then volunteered gamely to lead the way. It was then that Ariana got her first view of Paris since she'd been there as a child with her father and brother. But she was too tired to appreciate the sights, or even the beauty of the city. The Arc de Triomphe, the Place de la Concorde, the Pont Alexandre III whizzed by her. She simply closed her eyes and rumbled along in the jeep, hearing the old man shout instructions now and then and the young American at the wheel shout his thanks. At last they reached the address and Ariana opened her eyes. She had no choice but to step down then, though she would have preferred infinitely to sleep in the back of their car. In the end her flight from Berlin had taken her a full nine days, and now here she was in Paris, with no idea why she had come or what this man she was looking for would be like. Perhaps he was even dead by now. It seemed to her that everyone was. And as she stood outside his huge ornate doorway, she longed more than ever for the cozy little house in Wannsee she and Manfred had shared. But there was nothing there any longer, she had to remind herself. Nothing at all. Manfred was gone.

Old, mademoiselle? A fat, white-haired old woman swung open the main door, revealing a handsome courtyard on the other wide. Across it was a lovely eighteenth-century h+|tel particulier and a short flight of marble stairs. Vow d+!dress? The house lights glowed invitingly in the dark.

Monsieur Jean-Pierre de Saint Marne. Ariana answered her in French, and for a long moment the woman stared her down, as though she didn't want to understand. But Ariana persisted. Is he away from home?

No. The woman shook her head slowly. But the war is over, mademoiselle. There is no need to trouble Monsieur de Saint Marne anymore. She was tired of these people who had come calling and begging and entreating for so long. Let them go to the Americans now. They would kill Monsieur with their exhausting tales, their terrors, their emotions. For how long would this imposition continue to go on? Preying on the poor man like that. Watching her face, Ariana did not understand.

I ' I'm sorry. ' my husband and Monsieur de Saint Marne were old friends. He suggested that I look Monsieur de Saint Marne up when I got here' . She faltered and the old woman shook her head.

That's what they all say. And this one didn't look any better than the others. Sickly, skinny, deathly pale, in torn clothes and worn-out shoes, with only that tiny bundle in her hands. Lord, she looked as though she hadn't bathed in at least a week. And just because Monsieur had money, there was no reason for all this refugee riffraff to prey on him., I'll see if Monsieur is at home. But the handsome Rolls in the courtyard suggested that her master was indeed in. Wait here. Ariana sank down gratefully on a narrow bench in the courtyard, shivering slightly in the chill night air. But she was used to being cold and tired and hungry. Had she ever been otherwise? It was difficult to remember as she closed her eyes. It seemed hours later that someone was shaking her and she looked up to see the old woman, her lips pursed in disapproval, but nodding her head. He'll see you now. Ariana felt a wave of relief overcome her, not at the prospect so much of seeing him, but only because she would have to go no farther that night. At least she hoped not. She didn't care if he made her sleep in the attic, but she didn't think she had the strength to go another step before morning. She hoped desperately that he'd let her stay.

Following the old woman, she climbed the short flight of marble stairs to the main doorway, and a somber-looking butler opened the door and stepped aside. For an instant he reminded Ariana of Berthold, but this man had kinder eyes. He looked down at her for a brief moment and then, without speaking a single word, turned on his heel and disappeared. With that the old woman shook her head again in patent disapproval and muttered to Ariana in the front hall. He's gone to get the Master. They'll send for you in a minute. I'll go now.

Thank you, But the old woman cared not two pins for Ariana's thank-you.

The butler returned. She was led down a handsomely appointed hallway, draped in velvets and punctuated at regular intervals with portraits of the Saint Marne ancestors, Ariana stared at them blindly as she walked along, until at last they reached a large doorway and the butler flung open a single mirrored door. What she saw inside the room he had thus opened reminded her very much of Berlin's Royal Palace, with cherubs and gilt panels, inlays and marquetries and endless mirrors over white marble mantelpieces, and in the midst of all the splendor was a single serious-looking man, of Manfred's age but slighter build, with deep, worried furrows running between his eyes. He sat watching her from a wheelchair in the center of the room.