The Paris Spy (Maggie Hope Mystery #7)(58)
“And I adore Don Giovanni.” As a conductor’s daughter, as well as a pianist herself, Elise was well versed in music. She hadn’t heard any in a while—not counting the nuns’ hymns at Mass. There was no wireless for the sisters, as Mère St. Antoine’s policy was “We should pray and not concern ourselves with politics.”
Elise handed him the ceramic mug of herbal tea, and he sipped. “Ugh,” he said, making a face.
For a moment, he looked like a little boy, forced to eat his greens. “This isn’t a tea party, Captain. It’s for your health.”
“Gus, please.”
“Gus.” She undid the bandage on his leg and examined his wound, then cleaned it and applied the calendula ointment. “Your infection is deep,” she said, wrapping his calf with fresh bandages. “I wish I had morphine to give you.”
“Do you think my leg will need…amputation?”
As a nurse, Elise had always practiced honesty. “I can’t say,” she replied, looking him in the eye. “I hope not.”
“Will I live?”
“I’ll do everything possible to help you.”
He looked away to the small wooden crucifix on the wall; Elise knew he was struggling to control his emotions. “Why did you decide to become a nun?” he asked finally.
“I’m not a nun, actually,” Elise answered, pouring him more tea. “I’m a novice—meaning I’m staying with the sisters, trying to learn if the life of the order is right for me.”
“Who tells you if it’s right? Mère St. Antoine?”
“No!” She laughed. “God, of course.”
“Ah.”
Realizing that talking kept his mind off his injuries, she continued, “I always wanted to be a nun, though, ever since I was a little girl. But”—she smiled—“I liked boys. So I never took the vows.” She laughed at his expression. “Though I seem to have found myself here, at a convent, somewhat unexpectedly.”
“As have I,” he retorted drily.
The corners of her mouth curled up. The aria ended, and, after a few words from the announcer in French, “Ah! perdona al primo” began.
“Another Mozart favorite.” Gus looked up at Elise with gratitude. “You must be good luck.”
“God is better than luck. Rest now and I’ll check on you later.”
—
Elise returned to the Mother Superior’s office. “He’s stable. But the infection is very bad. And it’s spreading. I treated it with herbs, but I need real medicine. A doctor. In an ideal world, a surgeon.”
“My child…” Mère St. Antoine began.
“I know.”
“Will he live?”
“Most likely he won’t, unless his leg is amputated.”
“Can you do that here?”
“With the infection and the lack of sterile surgical equipment, no.”
“I will pray for him, and for you, too.” The Mother Superior opened a cupboard and took out a dusty brown bottle. “Brandy,” she said by way of explanation. “Perhaps it will help our guest with the pain.”
—
The stocky man flung another bucket of water at Hugh’s face. “Wake up, Sleeping Beauty!” he called. “Are you going to work with us?”
“No,” Hugh managed. He was slipping in and out of consciousness.
“No?” the man repeated, mockingly. “Well, maybe this will change your mind. Or, rather, she will.”
He gestured to the two SS men at the door. They opened it to reveal Sarah, then pushed her forward.
It took a while for Hugh’s eyes to focus, and when they did, he wasn’t certain what he was seeing was really there. “…Sarah?”
She sobbed, then nodded.
“You already know each other,” the stocky man interposed, “so we can dispense with the introductions.” He snapped his fingers; the guards untied her hands.
The man walked to Sarah and put his face close to hers. She stiffened.
He tore off her scarf, balled it up, and threw it into the corner. He undid the belt of her coat and yanked it from her shoulders. He ripped at her dress until it was in a puddle at her feet.
Sarah was left standing under a bare lightbulb in a white chemise, shivering from fear.
The Nazi interrogator held Hugh’s chin up, so he had to look. “You may be able to withstand your own torture, but what about hers? You don’t want to see that, my friend, believe me.” His voice softened. “Work with us. And we will spare your lover—”
“No, Hugh!” Sarah screamed. “Don’t do it!”
The stocky man nodded, and one of the thugs stepped forward. He punched her in the stomach. As she doubled over, gasping for breath, the other grabbed her hair to raise her face. They took out truncheons and circled her, as though trying to choose the most vulnerable place to attack.
As one raised his arm to strike, Hugh could take no more. “Stop!”
The two men stopped. The Englishman looked up at the man. “If you guarantee her safety, I’ll—do anything!”
“Hugh! No!”
“Give me your word—she won’t be harmed!”
The man didn’t smile. “I give you my word that as long as you both cooperate, she will be unharmed. And you as well. Obersturmbannführer von Waltz has a job for you.”