The shorter soldier makes an amused sound. “French women are only good horizontal, anyway.”
The taller, broad-shouldered soldier doesn’t respond.
My vision slowly clears a little more. The shorter soldier approaches the bed, grabs the wrist of my damaged hand, and drags me to my feet. A vicious pain shoots through my hand and wounded leg. My vision flashes white and a half gasp, half shriek escapes me.
Forty-eight hours.That is all I have to last for, without saying a word, to keep everyone safe.
I have no idea how long I was passed out for. Have no idea how many hours I have left before I reach that number.
“She cannot leave here without handcuffs.” The shorter soldier’s breath is as foul as his disposition. His hand remains tightly clasped around my injured wrist, and I bite back a whimper.
The taller soldier produces the required handcuffs and steps into my line of vision. I gasp.
Johann’s indifferent gaze flicks to me. The man I love is gone. In his place, is the enemy.
It’s not him.I’ve seen Johann pretend to be something he isn’t in front of other officers. It’s how he has survived in the military for as long as he has. This level of indifference…it’s not Johann. He loves me. I know he does. I’ve seen how he looks at me. That was not pretend.
Hope. That’s all I have left. Hope that I am right. Hope that Johann is here to save me, to save his child.
Because without hope, I have nothing left to keep my heart beating. Nothing left to ensure my baby and I make it through the war.
“Hands behind you,” Johann says to me in French, his voice crisp, harsh. There’s nothing in his tone that reminds me of the man I love.
It’s not really him. It’s not my Johann.
The shorter soldier yanks my hands into position before I can brace myself for the pain, and I am unable to stop the whimper in time.
A wave of nausea hits me hard, but the soldier’s hands on my wrists prevent me from doubling over.
He releases his grip, and Johann places the cold metal around my wrists. His calloused finger subtly caresses the skin on the inside of one wrist in a way that couldn’t be accidental. The movement is so tender, it summons a flash of longing and memories of other times he touched me that way.
The moment ends as abruptly as it started, and the cuffs click shut. I flinch but don’t dare to look at Johann, to see the cruelty in his eyes I have witnessed so many times in the enemy.
It’s not really him. It’s not my Johann.
The shorter soldier shoves me towards the cell door. I stumble. Johann grabs my arm, preventing me from sprawling onto the concrete floor, and allows me to get my footing.
He nudges me forwards, his hand on my shoulder. The action puts him between me and the other soldier.
They escort me out of the cell and down the corridor. We walk through a maze of other corridors until we come to the prison entrance. Johann shows the soldiers on duty the papers that release me into his custody. I am to be delivered to a senior officer in Avenue Foch, Paris.
Not a single word is exchanged between us.
He dismisses the shorter soldier and hope spreads through my chest. My last car ride required three escorts. I had two when I was taken to the hotel suite where I was interrogated. Now I have only one. I do not believe it’s because Johann does not see me as much of an escape risk. If there was another soldier waiting at the vehicle Johann came in, wouldn’t he have come inside the prison to help retrieve me?
I want to ask him what is going on, but now is not the time to voice the question out loud. I hug tightly onto my hope like it’s a warm blanket on a blustery autumn day.
Johann walks me to a black car that resembles one I have seen visit Jacques’s vineyard on several occasions. I want to ask about Jacques, but I am also not ready to hear the truth. For just a few more minutes, I want to believe the man I consider to be my father is alive and back at the vineyard, harvesting grapes.
Johann opens the rear door of the car. “Get in.” His tone is cool and brisk, a tone that is unfamiliar coming from him.
It’s not really him. It’s not my Johann.
Three soldiers march past but do not spare us a glance. The slap of their boots against the pavement has my body stiffening.
I half expect Johann to assist me into the car with a rough shove, to keep up the pretence, but he just waits for me to obey his command.
Nausea hits me hard again, sending my body reeling. I double over, retching, but nothing comes up. No relief is provided. My body hurts more than before.
