4
ANGELIQUE
October 1943
France
“We knowyou are in there, Angelique D’Aboville! Or should I call you Carmen?” The Gestapo agent’s words through the closed farmhouse door aren’t in French. They’re in English.
Oh, God.
They know.
My heart doesn’t just pound hard and fast in my chest. It hammers against my ribs, desperate to escape.
The Gestapo have figured out the widowed daughter living with Jacques Gauthier is an English spy.
But how? How do they know? Most people either know me as Angelique or Carmen, but very few people know I am English.
I glance at Jacques sitting at the kitchen table. Only a few moments ago I was busy cleaning the stove, the late morning sunlight a pale strip across the wooden floor.
Jacques knows I am English, but surely he didn’t say anything about it to anyone. He has rarely left the vineyard since his son, Yvon, was captured by the Germans. And the number of non-German visitors who drop by diminished once Johann moved into the farmhouse.
The look of shock in Jacques’s eyes confirms I am correct. He’s not the one who turned me in. But who did? No one else from the area knows I am English, other than Désirée. Not even the members of the parachute reception parties know the truth. They all believe my instructions come from someone else in the network who is linked to London and Baker Street. I am only the worker bee.
Jacques’s weathered face is pale, his eyes wild. Are the Gestapo planning to take him too, or is it just me they are after?
ThinkThinkThink.
I glance around the hallway, up the wooden staircase across from me, and then my gaze slides towards the doorways on either side of the hallway, leading to the kitchen and the drawing room. “Go to the drawing room,” I whisper to him in French. “Pretend you’re reading one of your winery journals.”
Doubt stares back at me in his worried eyes. He’s right. That won’t make a difference, but it’s better if he does not attempt to hide should they search the house. They’ll find him, and hiding will only make things worse for him.
Jacques walks to the drawing room, and I take a deep breath. Perhaps I can talk our way out of the situation.
The knocking on the door becomes more insistent. The heavy banging vibrates through the house, settles in my chest, rattles my bones.
“Mon Dieu,” I say loud enough to be heard on the other side of the door. “I am coming.” The words are in French, the only language I plan to speak for the entire conversation with the Gestapo.
I open the door. “Sorry. I was upstairs. I didn’t hear you. What can I do for you?” I take a moment to study the man in the grey Gestapo uniform. He appears to be in his late thirties and is sharp-eyed. The cold blue depths of his eyes reveals the lack of a soul.
“You’re under arrest, Madame D’Aboville. Or whatever your legal name is.” Like a moment ago, he speaks solely in English.
“Excuse me. I don’t understand what you are saying. Do you speak French?”
Another man dressed in the Gestapo uniform approaches the door from the second of the two black cars parked on the gravel driveway. He’s stockier than the other agent and close enough to hear me. “Do you speak French?” I ask him in the tone of a tourist inquiring if the person she’s talking to speaks her native tongue.
The curl of his mouth is as soulless as the agent standing before me. “Yes, Madame D’Aboville, I do.” His words are heavy with the guttural German accent, but it’s clear he can speak some French.
“Good. Can you please translate for me?” I shift my gaze to the taller agent and pray I can convince them I am not an English spy. I will be as good as dead if I cannot do that. “Is he asking for mycarte d’identité?”
I fight the urge to place my hand on my stomach, to protect my unborn child from our harsh reality. I don’t wish to alert these men to my pregnant status. They will not go any easier on me if they know the truth. If anything, things will be worse for my baby and me if they find out.
“Yes, let us see yourcarte d’identité,” the stocky Gestapo agent replies.
“It’s in my handbag on the hall table.” I make a move to turn to reach for it, but the stocky agent pushes past me and snatches up the bag.
“You’re under arrest, Frau D’Aboville, for treason.” The words are spoken by the taller agent, and this time they are spoken in French.
