He doesn’t answer.
“Perhaps we need to convince you to speak in your native tongue, Angelique.” A small smile curves on Captain Krüger’s face and sends a chill racing along my spine. “Or do you prefer Carmen?”
I don’t say anything and work at keeping all emotion, other than confusion, from my expression.
“That’s what I thought.” He pulls his hand back and slaps me hard across the face.
My ears ring. My lip stings. A metallic taste assaults my tongue. But I still fight to keep all emotions from my expression, including pain. I don’t even fake confusion this time.
“Alright, Angelique. Should we try this again? Who forged your papers?”
Once more, I look at the stocky agent for a translation. And once more, I am slapped in the face. Blood trickles down my chin and drips onto my dark-green skirt.
“Who forged your papers?”
This time I don’t bother to look at the stocky agent. I sit motionless, waiting for the next blow to come. It doesn’t matter who forged the papers. The person lives in England. The Gestapo is unable to touch him. But that’s not what this is about. Captain Krüger wants me to confess I am an English spy. Once I give him that information, there will be no stopping him.
When the third hit to my face still doesn’t loosen my tongue, the stocky agent tells him about my wounded leg.
Captain Krüger kneels and lifts the hem of my skirt high enough to expose the wound. “That looks like it could be the result of a bullet. Who was firing at you, Angelique?”
Silence.
“It’s certainly a nasty wound. You wouldn’t want it to get infected, now would you?”
I turn to him. “I’m sorry. I don’t understand you. I only speak and understand French.” I release a long, exasperated sigh, as if growing bored of repeating myself, and begin to inwardly shut down.
My mind drifts to the last night I was with Johann. To his whispered words of love. To his tender and passionate kisses. To the promise we would be a family one day. To the feel of him inside me.
If this is the room where I’ll breathe my last breath, these are the last memories I want to have. I want to die remembering the love I feel for him, the love he feels for me. Because when I reach down to my soul, to my very being, I know it’s true. He might have been born to the side of the enemy, but he’s not one of them. I believe that—like Oskar does.
And if I am wrong, it won’t matter. I won’t live long enough to learn the truth.
But the one thing I do know is, I won’t betray my country. I won’t betray the people I love. I won’t give this monster what he wants.
He digs his fingers into the wound, doing what he can to draw a confession from me. A sharp pain tears through my calf, and I cushion my soul in a bubble, restraining myself from telling him what he wants to hear.
The brief torture ends, and I know I haven’t given him what he wants. The only words I uttered were in French.
My skin is damp with perspiration and my heart is hammering hard. I don’t have to look at the gunshot wound to know the damage is severe. If I am able to walk out of here on my own two feet, it will be a major accomplishment.
I send a silent message to the baby in my womb to stay safe, to not give up. Until the final beat of my heart has played out, there is always a chance. The moment I surrender to my fate, it will spell the end for both of us.
Right now, I need a reason to live beyond seeing Johann again. The life growing inside me is that reason.
“You can play the simple country whore all you want, Carmen, but I know the truth. And do you want to know how I know the truth?” This time Krüger’s words are spoken in French, and a chill passes through my body.
He nods at something or someone behind me, and the door clicks open.
Heavy footsteps approach from behind me. I fight the urge to turn my head to see to whom they belong.
A man steps into my periphery, but I don’t dare to look at him.
“Hello, Carmen. It’s nice to see you again.” The words are spoken in English with a true aristocratic English accent instead of the guttural German accent of Captain Krüger.
I turn my head. My heart slams into my ribs. My pulse pounds a funeral march in my ears. Because as much as I want to deny my identity, the man standing next to me knows the truth.
Christian. The SOE agent Allaire introduced me to over five months ago in Paris.
