The Darkest Hour(2)

“Turn out your pockets.”

I swallow the sourness on my tongue and reach for my skirt pocket, but apparently I’m not quick enough.

“What are you hiding? Contraband?” He throws me against the brick wall behind us so forcefully that my veil slips an inch, revealing my ash-brown hair. I try to readjust the veil, but I freeze as the soldier’s hands roam over my habit. They brush over the rosary that conceals my scalpel-sharp knife, and they grope toward the very illegal pistol that’s strapped to my ankle. Without thinking, my training kicks in. I twist away from his grasp, using a move that I perfected back in Washington until I realize I’ve shown too much of my hand. His nostrils flare wide.

Stupid, I tell myself. I should’ve let his meaty hands search over me, but I wasn’t thinking. So stupid, Lucie.

“You surprised me, mein Herr,” I say, in hopes that he’s dense enough to believe me. “My deepest apologies.”

He slaps me hard, just as Papa used to do during one of his drunken outbursts. “What’s your name?”

“S-Sister Marchand.”

He’s about to interrogate me further, but then another soldier comes marching toward us. By the colorful markings on his lapel, he must be the commanding officer. A captain, perhaps.

Suddenly it’s becoming much more difficult to remain calm and collected.

“Who have you detained now, Lieutenant Schuster?” says the captain in German. I’ve picked up enough of their language to follow what they’re saying.

“This sister tried to strike me, sir. We should take her in for questioning.”

The older man wrinkles his nose and juts a rough hand toward me. “Your papers.” It isn’t a request.

Reluctantly, I give him every document that I carry: census card, ration card, residence ID, and so on. They’re all forgeries that have been crafted by the Office of Strategic Services—the mother organization to Covert Ops, based in Washington, DC—and, just like my pistol, these papers are highly illegal, too.

The captain scrutinizes each card, and my neck grows hot under my stiff collar. If he even catches a hint that I’m not a nun … An idea flashes through my head, and I snatch it before it flits away.

“Hail Mary, full of grace. The Lord is with thee,” I whisper. The words tumble out of me almost like a reflex thanks to all the times I heard my mother murmur them. “Blessed art thou amongst women.”

The captain sighs noisily and thrusts the papers at me. “That’s enough. Hurry along.”

“But, sir!” Lieutenant Schuster straightens. “We should question her at the very least.”

“This stringy thing?” The captain juts a thumb at me, and for once I’m glad to be called stringy. “We’d be wasting our time.”

“She’s too young to have taken her vows! Look at her.” The lieutenant flicks a hand at my face. “How old are you?”

“Eighteen.” Another lie. I’m sixteen just, and with the right clothes I can look younger still, but even Major Harken doesn’t know my real age and I don’t plan on telling him.

“Eighteen? You look barely old enough to attend lycée,” says Schuster.

The colonel shakes his head. “I said release her, Lieutenant. That’s an order.”

Schuster’s top lip curls like a slug, and he shoots me a poisonous glare. “Get out of my sight. And don’t be out after curfew, Sister Marchand.”

“May our Lord bless you,” I say in my smallest voice, and hurry past them.

One step after another, I wait for Schuster to run after me for more questioning, but I hear nothing except for the chirp of a songbird who sings a tune so sweet that if I shut my eyes, I can almost forget that Hitler conquered half of Europe before the rest of the world could lace up their boots and do something about it. Back in Maryland, the only Nazis in my life were the ones I read about in the papers or in the uncensored bits of Theo’s Victory mail letters. But once those letters ran dry, that’s when everything changed. A week after New Year’s, I skipped school and headed to the Women’s Army Corps to ask for a secretarial job—or any job, really—but the recruiter got this excited look on his face when I mentioned that I spoke fluent French. Not even six months later, I was airdropped into a new country. And now here I am, standing in Paris in its darkest hour, sent to a kill a man I hardly know.

Soon Saint-Paul-Saint-Louis looms over my head, standing proudly like a regal French king. A handful of parishioners shuffle through the front doors for evening mass, but I sneak down an alley that separates the church from the abandoned building next door. The path brings me to the church’s courtyard, a simple space decorated with a wooden bench and a potted citrus tree that sweetens the air. Here, the priests and nuns come to ponder the wonders of God in between their duties, but the courtyard is empty at this hour. I adjust my veil and knock on the side door three times.

The ancient door creaks open to reveal a sliver of Father Benoit’s black robes and wrinkled face. He looks a lot like the priests at my family’s parish back home—old and hunched and leathery—and he frowns at me just the same. I suppose I can’t blame him for that. I’ve asked a lot of him. Maybe too much.

“I’m sorry I’m late, Father,” I whisper. “May I come in?”

Hesitation brims in his dim eyes. “I’m afraid Monsieur Travert hasn’t yet arrived. You may have to return next week.”