The Darkest Hour(18)

She sniffs. “It’s likely best if the two of you didn’t get too close.”

“I don’t remember asking for your input.”

“Take it or leave it, but war is cruel.” She whirls around to unlock the door and adds, “Why do you think Harken keeps us all at arm’s length?”

I open my mouth to tell her that I know full well war is cruel, but it doesn’t matter because she’s already out the door. Calm and collected, I tell myself. Dealing with Sabine’s sourness is a small price to pay versus desk duty, although this Dorner fellow better be worth the headache brewing at my temples.

The June sun follows us as we head to the métro, leaving a damp handprint on the backs of our necks. I scour the streets for any glimpse of the Nazis, but I see only a long line of Parisians queuing at a bakery. Their faces sag and their hands clench like claws around their ration cards, which is smart because you never know when a thief might try to snatch your ticket from you.

I doubt my parents would recognize the Paris that I’m standing in. My father was raised in the city, and my mother moved here when she aged out of the convent orphanage in Saint-Malo. She found work at a patisserie in Passy, where she’d sweep floors and wipe the glass displays that protected the famous Marie Antoinette macarons bursting with raspberry and rose cream when you bit into them. A few times, she even got to taste them. Nowadays you’d be lucky to come by a full cup of sugar, and even if you did, you’d have to trade your grandmother’s china set for it.

When our car arrives at the Saint-Lazare station I expect Sabine to lose me in the crowd, but she sticks next to me like a bramble on a sock. She takes my elbow and guides me across the busy road that’s filled with bicycles, many of them with suitcases balanced on the handlebars—Paris’s wartime taxi service. The station bustles with a swarm of people today, including Nazis. The soldiers stop a group of passengers who’ve arrived in Paris and demand to search their bags for black market contraband—coal, tobacco, fresh meat. An old woman cries when they discover the eggs she has hidden in her purse. I can’t blame her for that. I haven’t tasted an egg in weeks.

Sabine leads us to the ticket counter, where we queue for over an hour with the other passengers, some hoping to head east to Verdun while others hoping to travel south to Vichy, home of the French government. But everyone knows that Nazis are the ones pulling the strings across the country, and Premier Pétain is nothing but a dressed-up marionette.

Using our fake francs, we purchase two tickets for the late morning train. The earlier one has been canceled due to track work, and so Fifine and I settle on an open bench, pretending to laugh at each other’s jokes and sharing a pouch of dried plums that Laurent left for us.

Not long after we’re seated, Sabine dips her chin toward me. Her expression is as calm as the Seine on a hot day, but she whispers daggers into my ear. “Over there. Five o’clock. See him?”

A shiver slithers down my back. I pretend to check the clasp on my valise as I search for the “him” that Sabine mentioned. There he is: a Nazi officer. He’s staring at us. Rather, he’s staring at me.

“We should move,” I say quietly.

“Do you recognize him?”

I don’t offer an answer right away. Could Father Benoit have turned me in after all? But he knew me as prim and proper Sister Marchand, not as Fleurette. “I don’t think so, but we should leave. To be safe.”

With my valise in one hand and my guitar case in the other, we head to the train platform, hoping to lose the officer in the crowd, but he weaves toward us. Worse, he has increased his speed. I search for possible exits, with my pulse stammering all the way.

“You head to the restroom,” I whisper to Sabine, “and I’ll continue down to the platform. If he arrests me—”

Too late.

“Mademoiselle! Attendez une minute!” the soldier calls out in passable French. He reaches me within seconds and gestures at my guitar case.

“Is there a problem, mein Herr?” I banish the quiver in my voice and bat my lashes. “Would you like to see my ticket?”

The soldier surprises me by offering me a grin so white that I wonder if he gargles with bleach. “Do you play, mademoiselle? The guitar?”

It takes me a few seconds to realize that he doesn’t want to search my bags—that he wants to talk about my guitar of all things. “Not very well. Do you, mein Herr?”

“Guitar is a hobby of mine. I have three back in Munich.” He combs back his golden hair, and I have no doubt that he’s a real dish back in Germany since he has a face as handsome as Errol Flynn’s, but I wish he’d leave us alone. Fortunately our train has arrived early. It’s pulling into the station as we speak.

“I’m afraid we have to catch our train,” I say.

“This one here?” He juts a thumb at it, and his grin widens. “It’s mine as well.”

I mask my disappointment. “How lucky for us.”

“I’m spending the day in Cherbourg. I was waiting for another fellow in my regiment to join me, but I think he may have gotten lost. It’s no matter, though.” He leans in closer and adds, “I can always make new friends.”

I almost groan.

“I’m Captain Oster,” he continues, “but do call me Lothar. And you two are?”